


Mergers & Acquisitions

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Office, Arguing, Co-workers, I want to kill you, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Kissing, M/M, Office Party, Sexy photocopying, Stationery-based violence, Swearing, Workplace, but also I want to feed you biscuits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: It's been three months since the merger. Simon Snow, once perfectly happy with his meaningless desk job, now dreads coming to work. His boxy little office has been replaced with a modern, spacious, glass-walled prison he must share with the new boss's son. As if things couldn't get worse, said CEO's son―Baz “Don't touch my fucking ruler” Pitch―informs him they must plan an office party together to celebrate the merger. The good news: the view from their sixty-first floor office is fantastic. The bad news: Simon isn't sure he can spend one more day in close proximity to Baz without strangling him. (Or kissing him. Or pinning him against the photocopier. But that's neither here nor there.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 158
Kudos: 403
Collections: Carry On Big Bang 2020





	1. Baz Pitch’s (non-negotiable) rules for office harmony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pjpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjpg/gifts).



> This is an AU fic featuring mid-twenties Snowbaz, homemade biscuits, unshareable stationery and long-ignored emails. It is part of the Carry On Big Bang 2020 event, and was written in collaboration with the brilliant [pjpg](http://parijpg.tumblr.com). Please check out the incredible art for this fic below, and visit the artist's blog for more. :) Thank you to sconelover and The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff for beta reading, I appreciate you so much. Thank you for reading, please check the tags before RSVPing to the party. <3 I hope this fic can make you laugh.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/50233390568/in/dateposted-public/)

**SIMON**

Murders and acquisitions. That's what they should call it.

Sod the _mergers_ part. This is straight-up war, and it only ends when one of us dies. (Alright, so that's a bit dramatic.) (Also, _realistic_.) (So far, I've thought of eighteen ways to kill him using a stapler.)

He's sitting in his chair, back turned on the world, judging me like he’s paid to do it. _And this month’s employee bonus goes to The Undeniable Prat, for sneering his office mate into the carpet._

What are we even _merging_ , exactly? Our companies? I don't see why that was necessary. We were doing fine on our own...we didn't need this faceless, brainless corporation to gobble us up and make us feel like nobodies. I didn't need to leave my nice, comfortable office in Shoreditch and end up trapped in a glass skyscraper in Canary Wharf. I don't even know what my job _is_ anymore. Does the new CEO know I work here? Could I not show up one day and get away with it?

I don't know _what_ we're getting paid for. I arrive at nine, clack at the computer for a bit, make tea and go for a walkabout on the lower floors...then I come back, deal with my absolute wanker of a colleague all afternoon, and go home at five. If you asked me what I did all day I'd say I've got no idea. If you demanded I describe my job: _no fucking clue, mate_. The only thing I _do_ know is that before the merger, I had a good thing going. My office was nice, my boss was a legend, and my job was clearly defined: do the photocopying, send out emails, open post, file things in the filing cabinet, answer phone calls. It was _manageable_. Maybe it wasn't a highly intellectual top-of-the-range job, but it made sense.

Now, nothing makes sense.

Especially not _Baz._

That's what he likes to be called, the tosser in the chair. The pain in my arse, the dark in my day. (His full name's etched on our office door: T. BASILTON GRIMM-PITCH. He won't tell me what the T stands for, but I have my theories.) (Twat, Tyrant, Testicle, Thankless Bastard.) (That last one needs a bit of work.)

In my defence, even though things are bad right now, I tried to make it work...he just made things so _difficult_. I don't know what I did in those first few days to make him hate me, but it must have been bad, because he won’t let it go. He's never given us a chance. By the end of my first week here, he'd stuck a poster of rules up on the wall above my desk, like I'm a fucking child and he's my arse of a grandad.

I stare at those rules every single day. I dream about tearing them down and smacking what remains against his stupid, chiselled, angular face.

...what?

He's a complete and utter prat but he _is_ good looking. I'll give him that much.

The rules, though...they can sod right off.

* * *

**BAZ PITCH'S (non-negotiable) RULES FOR OFFICE HARMONY**

1\. Do not touch my fucking ruler. Apply this rule to all known stationery items.

2\. Do not touch me. At all. Respect the concept of personal space.

3\. Do not talk to me whilst I am typing or on the telephone or faxing.

4\. In fact, avoid talking to me at all unless it is strictly necessary/ordained from above.

5\. Do not chew loudly and/or with your mouth open. Swallow like a decent person, not a pelican.

6\. Read and reply to all emails in a timely manner. Do NOT forward me spam about _penis enlargement pills_.

7\. Do not mess with the blinds. At all. _Ever_. They are fine as they are.

8\. Keep your feet off the furniture, you animal.

9\. A shrug does NOT constitute an answer. Use your words.

10\. No personal questions.

* * *

Honestly, it's ridiculous. (And more than a bit rude.)

He must hate that I got thrown in here with him and he had to sacrifice half of his office. If he feels anything like I do about change, then fair enough, he didn't want this either. But what was I supposed to do? _Not_ go along with the merger? Me, sitting alone in the old office in Shoreditch, talking to the walls...

Shit happened, but Baz can't seem to deal with it.

I tell Penelope everything, all of the horrible things he does and says. Penny works in the art department on the thirtieth floor—we live together and she's had to impose rules in the flat, because apparently I moan about Baz so much it drives her round the bend. She reckons all of this fighting and arguing is because of _unresolved sexual tension_ , but she doesn't know what she's talking about. If she spent one day stuck in here with him, she'd be as uptight as I am.

Sometimes I think about marching over to him, straddling him in his stupid, fancy, high-backed chair, and beating him senseless with the fire extinguisher.

What's so sexual about _that?_

**BAZ**

Snow showed up to work looking especially bedraggled today, as though the morning had taken its toll before he'd rolled out of bed. (I assume he owns a bed, and not just a wafer-thin mattress stolen from IKEA.) He has the same amount of time in the morning as the rest of us, but he doesn't seem to _do_ anything with it.

He's sitting at his desk—the most pointless piece of furniture in the room, seeing as he uses it for nothing besides propping up assorted unwashed mugs and infantile figurines from _The Legend of Zelda_. When he first moved into the office I tried to enforce a _No personal items!_ rule, but he wouldn't listen. Damned if Snow doesn't insist on doing the exact opposite of everything I say.

I know what he thinks—that I hate him, and that I put rules in place to stifle him. Secretly, I ache to make things easier. He was thrust upon me by the powers that be, and I realised soon after his arrival that it would be very, very difficult to cope if I did not maintain strict boundaries between us.

Snow does this thing when he's speaking to you, where he stands a mite too close.

He runs his hands over things and asks inane questions, unaware of the explicit trauma he’s causing as my eyes track each flick of his thumbs, his fingers, his wrists.

His chin lifts and eyes trap you in a challenge, pinning you to the spot.

His cheeks, marred with red whenever he faces the dirge of the photocopier...its innumerable perplexing buttons...

In truth, by the end of week one, I was desperate. To do what, I wasn't sure—stab him with a compass or bend him over the desk, one of the two. And in the end, I did neither.

I wrote rules. I stapled them to the wall.

I let Snow see every scowl, every sneer, every frown, and little else.

It's for the best. Let him believe this is something as simple as hate.

He's a pain in my life, a thorn in my side, the regret at the end of each unfulfilling day lost in this god-awful building. He says he doesn't know what he's here for, but I do.

He's here to make my life complicated.

(He's succeeding.)

“Have you checked your emails?”

I know he hasn't. He doesn't read his emails unless someone (me) is standing over him, verbally berating him into compliance. I bribed him into reading my monthly newsletter by dangling a chocolate bar over his head once, and that _did_ work, but I haven't had time to visit the vending machine this morning. A berating will have to do.

“It's not even half past nine,” he mutters, swearing at his computer as it beeps at him, informing him he's entered his password incorrectly too many times. “Great. Now I've got to call IT. That's _your_ fault.”

I wait for him to simmer down, watching his reflection in our floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the city of London. It's the one thing we both enjoy about our shared space—the view. When relations with Snow are particularly bad, I remind myself that I can always throw myself out of our window and meet a glorious end in the Thames below. At least I have that to turn to, should I ever be in the market for a last resort.

It wasn't meant to be like this, us hating each other. We were supposed to get along...work together, go to lunch, exchange personal numbers and be something akin to _friends_. (At least that's what I craved, three months ago.) But I've royally ruined things by dint of being myself, and it's difficult to see a way back from this.

I know exactly what Snow thinks of me. When he asked for my name and his nose crinkled...well, I can't blame him. I know how it looks.

My stepmother runs one of the largest multinational corporations in Britain. Over the past decade, it's grown to become a nameless entity much like any other headquartered in London, with its tendency to subsume all smaller businesses found trembling in its path.

_Grimm Findings_ : my past, my present, my future.

Also my _family_ , and that's what _really_ makes Snow's blood boil. He thinks I _enjoy_ this, the cushy office on the sixty-first floor—given to me, when he had to work his way up from what I can only assume were more modest beginnings.

If I had my way in life, without the burden of familial expectations, I'd be off in the south of France, drunk off my face on sun-sweetened strawberries. Instead I find myself trapped in this bland, sterile, air-conditioned hellhole, and as the CEO's stepson, I have scant opportunities to escape.

The work is unbearably bleak, and I’m burdened further by my _other_ full-time job—babysitting Simon Snow as he embarks upon his daily quest to be as prickly as possible, without becoming outright violent. The things that man can do with a stapler...well, it doesn’t warrant description.

Daphne knows I'm not cut out for this. She treats me with respect and a vague, underlying current of pity. She assigns me menial tasks to show the shareholders I'm doing _something_ , and not just ordering wholesale quantities of black gel pens. (I wouldn't need to buy so many if Snow didn't insist on chewing the ends off them.) I think the expectation is that one day I'll leave _to reside elsewhere within the wider business_ , after putting in a year or two at the firm.

This week I've been given a project, something to keep the board members happy. A task so daunting I don't know where to begin. I certainly don't know how to explain it to my project partner...and so I've done what I always do when an office-based crisis arises.

I’ve sent a lengthy email with an attached PowerPoint presentation, setting out goals and expectations, with the subject ATTENTION: OPEN IMMEDIATELY.

One page of the presentation is entitled _F_ _oreseeable Problem Areas_. Underneath the heading I've written, _Simon Snow._

**SIMON**

I can feel Baz staring at me.

He sits with his back to the glass, and it must get proper hot in the middle of the day...he won't let me touch the blinds, so I can't close them for him. I asked him if he wanted to switch desks once and he told me never to threaten his furniture again. (Whatever. My desk’s bigger.) (Baz is the bigger dickhead and I've got the bigger desk, so who’s winning?)

“Got into those emails yet, Snow?”

I grit my teeth and think of all the nasty things I could do to him with a pencil sharpener. I'd give him fifty quid—right here, right now—if he'd call me by my first name. I'd give him back all the pens I've stolen, all the paper clips I've hidden in drawers, all the snapped elastic bands and chewed pen lids. I'd snog him, just to see the look of shock and disgust on his face. _All this can be yours, if you’d only call me Simon_.

“Computer's still booting up.”

“Did IT have any salient advice?”

I shrug. “Told me to turn it off and on again. Usual stuff.” To be fair, it worked—the bloke on the phone (somebody called Niall) said it would reset the password count. I type my password in with one finger, as slowly and as loudly as I can, just to make triple sure I'm pissing Baz off. _Cherryscones61_ : my favourite food and the floor we work on. Can't forget it, can I? I spell _scones_ correctly this time and it lets me in. I relax when I see my screensaver of Yorkshire puddings and gravy. (That's another thing I did to piss Baz off. When I started working here I tried to break the ice by talking about dinner, and he called me a _crumb-riddled idiot_.)

“All logged in, are we?”

For the love of glue sticks, what's his problem? Why's he so keen to get into my emails? I thought he'd given up on _that_ lost cause long ago.

We had a full-blown argument about _email etiquette_ three days in. He thinks I need to reply to every daft little thing he sends so he knows I got it, and I'm like... _I am fucking sitting right next to you. I am_ not _typing a reply._ _Talk to me._ (Once, he saw the number of unopened emails in my inbox and fell over.) (I've been working on that. I'm down to 1,748.)

I need to breathe. Stay calm. Penny says when he gets me going like this, I should take three long, deep, controlled breaths, and think about something pleasant. (Breakfast it is, then.)

There's always something in the air in the office...I wonder if they pump it in through the vents? It's just so _tense_.

_Breathe, breathe, breathe._

“Alright, fine. I'm logged in. Emails are open. Happy?”

He moves from behind his desk and stands next to me, stirring his tea with a metal spoon. He clinks the side of the mug on every rotation, and I'm so bloody tempted to take that spoon and stick it up his firm, well-dressed—

“There. Third from the top. Open it.”

“You open it!” I snarl, rolling my chair back so the wheel stubs his toe. He yelps and jumps back—not far enough, if you ask me, but far enough that I'm no longer getting the full blast of his cologne. He smells like spice and the sea, and I can't fucking stand it. Also, does he have to wear such tight trousers? I refuse to believe this git doesn't have a personal tailor on call. He must be doing it on purpose to rile me up. Maybe he likes having the blood flow cut off from his brain.

I really _don't_ need to be thinking about Baz's trousers, but here we are, and now I'm having my own problem with blood flow and—just, fuck—well, _shit_. He is _evil._

“I can't open it for you," he says, "because you are behaving like a feral hound. Christ, Snow, how old are you? If I get too close, are you going to bite me?”

"Shut up," I snap. "I'm twenty-four. No? Twenty-five, same as you."

"Are you sure? You don't act like it."

_I_ am _going to bite you,_ I think. _Trail my teeth along your jaw and rip your bloody head off._

Words, words, words. That's all Baz is. Words and a lot of suspiciously shiny hair that he ties back in a loose, annoying bun. (Sometimes I wonder what he'd do if I cut it off. Like, just stood behind him at his desk and went at it with a pair of scissors.) (His stepmum's the CEO so if he murdered me, he probably wouldn't even go to prison. Just get a few hours of community service he can fob off on an intern.)

I roll my shoulders. I can’t relax, knowing he's behind me. I just want to sit here in peace and pretend I'm entering important things into my calendar, then go down to the fortieth floor and make a cup of tea. (That's how you know a place is hell, when you have to go twenty floors down to find a fucking kettle.) (There's a kitchen upstairs, but only the executives are allowed to use it.) (Baz uses it.)

“Fine. If I open your email will you piss off? You're the one who's always going on about personal space, and yet I have none.”

He sneers at me over the top of his mug. “Yes. In fact, if you read it in its entirety, I promise to only say awful things to you in my mind for the rest of the morning.”

“Great. Well. Here we go then, if it means so much to you.”

"It does," he snaps, rattling his spoon again. "If it's too early for you to be reading, Snow, let me know—I can provide excellent narration."

As if I need his voice roaming around my head more than it already does. (I swear he's found his way into my dreams.)

I'm about to open my mouth and say something horrible when the door knocks. Whoever's in the corridor doesn't wait for us to answer—it swings open and they walk through, holding two more clinking mugs.

"Good morning, boys," Penny says cheerfully, putting the mugs down on my desk. One for her, one for me—she's the best. "Nice to see you haven't killed each other."

"Yet," I mutter.

Baz rolls his eyes and goes back to his desk.

**PENELOPE**

Honestly, I am sick to death of these two. Every time I walk into their office I expect to encounter an argument—or worse, a crime scene. They've been at each other's throats ever since the merger, which was _three months ago_. (And for the rest of us, fast became old news.)

I know _why_ they're both being idiots about this, but neither of them are capable of seeing past their own noses far enough to deal with it. Basil is marginally better at masking his emotions, but it's still painfully obvious. The tension, the ridiculous rules—it's a crush gone the way of madness and office violence. A crush of resentment and unbelievable stubbornness, on both their parts.

I promised myself I'd stay out of it. Let them kill each other with pencils and sharpened words, if that's what they really want...but I hate to see Simon so on edge. That's why I was secretly thrilled to see the email from mum this morning—she's co-chief executive alongside Daphne Grimm, we all got moved over here after Grimm Findings bought out mum's company—because it means the boys might have to finally work some of this out.

"Have you checked your emails?"

Baz snorts and Simon groans, sinking into the watery tea I've brought up from fortieth. (By the time the lift gets here it's tepid at best, but Simon refuses to use the kitchen upstairs. He says it's a matter of ethics.) "Not you too, Penny," he whines, shooting Baz a dark look. "He's already been on at me today. I'm looking now."

"Do you have one from mum marked URGENT: READ NOW, MR SNOW?"

Simon swears under his breath, clicking out of whatever he was looking at and returning to his inbox. (It's overwhelming, but he refuses to let me organise it.)

"No. There's nothing from—oh wait, there it is. What is it?"

"Open it and see. I've got to get back downstairs, but you'll call me when you get started, won't you? I can clear my schedule and help."

"Clear your…? Help with what?"

Baz is tapping his foot, looking at me like I've stolen his thunder.

"Read mum's email, Simon. See you later."

I know better than to stick around and wait for the explosion.

If they could just stop being so clueless and—I don't know, fight? Throttle each other? _Viciously kiss?_ —things would be _much_ better. Complicated, yes...but better.

Anything would be better than _this_.

**SIMON**

Penny backs out of the office, waving and whispering something I can't quite catch. I click on Mitali Bunce's email, but then Baz is over me again, wrestling the mouse from my hand.

"Read mine first."

"Baz, fuck off—I think the co-chief executive's email is a bit more important _yours_. Get off my computer!"

"No," he spits, raiding my inbox for his email. New junk messages from my mailing lists are already pouring in. "You're a menace to the internet, Snow. I will _not_ have my hard work undone by a meddling Bunce." He's standing right behind me, one arm either side of my shoulders. I can't breathe for how good he smells. "If you read _one_ sodding email today, it will be mine."

"Alright! Back off! Rule number two, for fuck's sake. What, you can dictate them but don't have to follow them?"

His eyes flick up to the paper above my desk. He backs away, arms folded across his chest. _Respect the concept of personal space._

I look at his precious email, which I notice he sent before eight this morning. Typical Baz—gets in early, just so he can extend the amount of time he spends ruining my life. He probably gets paid five times what I do, simply for existing. Just for being born a Grimm. (Or a Grimm-Pitch, I suppose. I never asked him why he has two surnames, when his parents only have one.) (I _did_ ask if he was illegitimate once—it was a theory me and Penny had, because him and Daphne don't look alike—and he said he was _legitimately_ going to punch me.)

Blah, blah, blah. Long words and longer sentences and...oh! Yes, look, there he goes, putting, fifty, commas, into every, , fuc,,,king sentence,,,,.

And...

Wait.

Woah, woah, _woah,_ mate—back up for a minute.

Hold your fucking horses.

Is that...? Does that say...

_What?_

_Planning Your Last-Minute Office Merger Party: Rules and Regulations by T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch._

**BAZ**

I check my watch. It's been a good five minutes since Bunce left, and I expect an explosion is imminent. Nobody goes off quite like Simon—in many ways, it's a glorious sight to behold. If only I weren't constantly on the receiving end, I might even be able to enjoy it.

There's one email, no doubt lost in the mire of his disgraceful inbox, that I ache for him to read. I sent it a fortnight ago, on his ten-week anniversary of moving into the office. It's a list of things I want to apologise for, and it begins: _First and foremost, I am sorry for always being such a colossal arsehole to you, every minute of the day. I can't explain why I do it and I wish I could take it back, so we might start again_.

I frown as he slumps in his chair, shaking his head. He'll never read my apology and he'll certainly _never_ agree to plan a party with me.

“Nope, no way,” he says, sliding down until his head is level with the keyboard. (He is the poster child for appalling posture. Sometimes I daydream about sellotaping my ruler collection together, end to end, and shoving them down the back of his shirt.) “No way are we doing this. How can they expect us to _do_ this?”

He spins in his chair and rolls across the carpet towards me, like a malevolent Henry vacuum cleaner. (Snow actually reminds me of a Henry vacuum. The standard model with the red face and vacant eyes—he has the same gormless expression.)

“This is your fault. Probably. Most likely. There's a very good fucking chance this is _your_ fault, Pitch.”

I act affronted, though it’s precisely how I expected him to react. “How so? Am I to blame for the horror that is the sub-standard office party? It’s hardly a new concept, Snow.”

I listen to his jaw click as he adopts his fighting stance. “Your bloody boss did it, didn't she? Or maybe you got together and had a good laugh over it. A laugh and a cigar and a bottle of charlatan, while you worked out this whole stupid plot to destroy me.”

“Charla—? A bottle of _charlatan?_ Snow, what the bloody hell do you—”

_“Stop changing the subject!”_

He's shouting. That's not good. We’re fast approaching the point of no return, to which we've been so many times before—the next step is the flinging of common office ephemera, which can only end in tears. (For me, not him. He never cries. Not even when I threw a jumbo binder clip and shattered his favourite mug.)

“Fine.” I slam my tea down on the edge of his desk. (I don't use a placemat. I've given up on all such civilised notions.) “I can assure you that I had nothing to do with this. Daphne—who, by the way, is _your_ boss too—approached me after work yesterday and asked me to collaborate with you. It's a chance for you to do something _useful_ with your time, Snow. I thought you'd appreciate me asking.” I fight to keep my voice low and even, though I can already feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

I _hate_ this. I hate how frustrated we make each other. Why is it so difficult to make any progress with Simon, but so easy to upset him? “You think I'm plotting to destroy you by—” I observe him in the physical act of biting his tongue. Blood drips out of his mouth, and not for the first time, I marvel at his inability to grasp a metaphor. “Stop that, you maniac!”

Does he despise me this much?

For a wild, intrusive moment, I imagine dipping my mouth to his and licking the blood away. I know exactly what Simon Snow would taste like: cold tea, stale crackers and abject fury.

Instead of licking my way to an early grave, I retrieve a packet of tissues from my desk drawer and offer them to him. They're aloe vera scented, so they'll taste awful, but it's all I have to hand. He snatches them and growls at me.

“Your fault.”

“Everything's my fault.”

“Too right it is. What’s your fucking problem? This tissue tastes like shit.”

When he's stopped bleeding, the rage subsides and I'm able to try again. It's not as though he has a choice, but with Snow one must provide the _illusion_ of choice. When he feels backed into a corner he's apt to turn savage and lash out, like a panicked badger.

“Would you take another look and see what you think? The executive board are quite keen for us to get cracking on the plan.”

“I'm not sitting through a fucking PowerPoint presentation about party planning, Baz. It's insulting that you wrote another list of _rules_ , like you're my teacher and I'm, I'm your—your—”

Student. Pupil. Apprentice. Any of these words would do. Instead, Snow blurts out the one word bound to further increase the tension in the room.

“Your _assistant_.”

As soon as he says it, his cheeks turn a fierce red. He glares up at me from under his spill of curls, as angry with himself as he is with me. I watch his hand twitch, within range of a desk tidy filled with coloured pencils. It's one of his favoured projectiles—after he's tossed it at me, he'll spend an hour angrily sharpening the entire set, starting with the darkest colour first.

His present wave of anger stems from the day he moved in here. _(That fateful day_ , as I’ve begun to think of it.) I bumped into Snow in the lobby on the ground floor, and it was an innocent mistake on my part. How was I to know he worked in corporate when he was dressed like a reject from a 90s boy band? I mistook him for an assistant and started ordering him about—I believe I may even have referred to him as _the coffee boy_ , which I concede is rather rude. Snow corrected me on the spot, but he's never forgiven me for it.

He stares up at me, mouth swollen from where he drew blood. The look he's sporting says _get one more wrong thing, Pitch, and I'll smash your hand through the laminator._

“I apologise. I really do. I merely wanted to make things easier—clear up any confusion before it arises.”

“I'm not following any more of your stupid rules, Baz. You don't control me.”

“I am ever so aware of that. Believe me.”

He sighs, balling up the bloody tissue and tossing it at the waste paper basket. (He misses. Not even close.) He spins to face his computer and puts both feet up on the desk. (Showing flagrant disregard for rule eight, but now is _not_ the time.) His trainers are crusted with dried mud, and I want to yank them off his feet.

“We must plan the merger party together, Snow. I'm Daphne's go-to and you're...you're the co-chief executive's..." _(DO NOT SAY ASSISTANT)_ "...well. You're her second in command, aren't you? They've entrusted us with this job because they know we can handle it.” I pause, watching the back of his head as he continues to stew. “This needn't be difficult. Ten minute discussion to hash out the main details, then if you like, I'll take care of the rest. You can wash your hands of it.” _Of me._

It takes him an age to turn around.

“Can't leave it all to you, can I? That'd hardly be fair,” he mumbles, picking at his cuffs. "Besides, if _you_ plan a party it'll end up being a nightmare goth version of a school disco." He sighs, glaring up at me. I dare to hope that the shouting might be over. “I'll help. But I want paper streamers, fairy lights and party hats. The pointy ones, with an elastic band that stretches under your chin.”

“Over my dead body.”

Snow doesn't appear too upset by the idea. “That can be arranged. Nobody will notice a difference, Baz—you’re always boring as fuck. When's the party, then? How long have we got?”

I swallow. _Just when he's calmed down._ _Lord above, this is difficult._ I look around, considering my options for obstacles to duck behind, in case he goes ballistic.

“The party's tomorrow night, Snow. We have one day to plan.”

**SIMON**

“Tomorrow? As in...the day after today? We're supposed to plan an entire party by _tomorrow?_ ”

“Well,” Baz says, and I reckon he must be feeling ill, because he's gone a bit peaky and won't look at me. “We're to plan it by five o’ clock. The party is tomorrow night, so...”

I've never known him to _not_ finish a sentence before. I usually have to beg him to shut up.

I can't believe this. I can't believe _him._ How could he agree to this? He's only so high up in the company because his stepmum's in charge. Penny taught me the word for that: _nepotism_. Baz is a child of nepotism and he has a nice flat and a flashy car because of the name he was born with, not because of what he did with his life.

At least I'm here because I earned it. Alright, fine, so Penny's mum is on the board. And yeah, she interviewed me...and she gave me the job. But I still had to _pass_ the interview! I had to show initiative and prove that I could do it. Mrs Bunce saw all the things in me that Baz refuses to.

He calls me an assistant, but I'm more than that. (Also, we have the same job title, so I don't see why he thinks he's better than me. It's right there on our office door: EXECUTIVE CLERKS: T. BASILTON GRIMM-PITCH & SIMON SNOW.) (Apparently because of "alphabetical order" my name's second. I call bullshit.)

How could he be so _dense?_

“We can't plan a party in one day.”

“We must try, Snow. In my email I've laid out the groundwork—between us we simply need to make a few key decisions.”

“Key decisions? Like what, whether we hire a comedy DJ or not? Should we play musical chairs, or set up a giant game of Pin The Tail On the Donkey-Faced Executive? Baz, this is a fucking _joke,_ and you know it. Why do we only get one day? Why can't the party be next week?”

He's leaning against his desk, looking down on me. The sun's hitting his face in just the right way to make him squint. (He's too stubborn to fix the blinds so he can actually see.) (Rule seven, one of his favourites.)

“Daphne says the executives are in the Bahamas next week, and tomorrow's the only day they could all agree on. They settled the party date at their last board meeting and just...forgot to inform us.”

“Oh, great! As long as the e _xecutive board_ doesn't suffer any inconvenience...fuck me, Baz. When did _you_ find out about this?”

He rubs his eyes. “At about eight o' clock last night. And thus began the long night of PowerPoint wrangling. Look, none of this was my idea, and it's _not_ how I'd want our first collaboration to go. But it's set in stone and there's no good to come from fighting it.”

_Our first collaboration._

Does he think about stuff like that? I thought it was just me.

When I first got here I couldn't wait to see who I was working with and get stuck into things...then I met Baz, and it all went to shit.

Still, I think he's...trying...?

Maybe I need to try, too.

I take a deep breath.

“Alright, then. Can't beat them? Force feed them. We should have pizza. Stacks of fondant fancies. Carrot sticks for the health-conscious.”

Baz smirks. Objectively, from this distance, he's attractive. (It's when his mouth opens that the problems begin.) (A lot of the weird dreams I've had since starting this job have involved Baz's mouth being open.) When we first started working together and I didn't know what an arse he was, I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He looked surprised and said he'd never had one. I've never caught him off guard like that again...he told me not to ask personal questions, or he'd staple my tie to the desk and watch me choke. (Rule number ten, underlined for emphasis.)

That's my life with Baz. Casual death threats and only ever being one step from each other's throats. I don't suppose it'd kill me to cooperate for once. Maybe it'd win me some favour upstairs—all of the executives work on the sixty-second floor—and I could put it on my CV. Penny can help me make it sound good: _undertook a crucial cooperative project to encourage team-building and interdepartmental relations_. (Or, you know. Whatever.)

Baz pushes off from his desk and wheels his chair over to me. I don't think we've ever sat next to each other like this. Sometimes if I'm late to the weekly staff meeting I sit by him because it's the only empty seat, but in the office, we keep our distance.

Up close, I can see how tired he looks. I wonder how late he stayed up last night, working on his party rules? I'd ask him, but Baz hates talking about himself. The lads on the fortieth floor say he's got his own flat somewhere near Canary Wharf, but that's all anyone knows about him. (It's probably a penthouse. As bare and boring as our office.)

Sometimes I think about Baz at home. What he'd be like when he's not shouting at people in a work environment. Does he spend hours in the bath like I do? I can just picture him in a gaudy suite, looking down on the city at night, drinking red wine and wearing a satin bathrobe...

“Carrot sticks, we can do. I was thinking we could contract the catering to my cousin's company—Dev Grimm. He usually does weddings, but I'm sure he'd fit us in if it isn't too late notice.”

I stick my finger in his face and shout, “Nepotism!”

He rolls his eyes. “Is that the only word you know, Snow? Don't you share a flat with the daughter of the co-chief executive? It's hardly fair to throw my connections in my face, when you're equally as opportunistic.”

“Not related to Penny though, am I? And it's true. You just don't like hearing it. You can't give your family the company’s contracts, Baz—Grimms can't own _everything_ in London.”

“They wouldn't be _owning_ anything—his company would simply be providing the desired number of cucumber sandwiches. Would you rather do all the cooking yourself? Can you make fifty pizzas in one night?”

I stick out my chin and try to sneer at him the ways he sneers at me. (He reels back, so it must be pretty scary.) “You think I'm too stupid to cook. I'll have you know I bring in cakes and stuff every week, and the girls on twenty-second _love_ it.”

“So I've heard. Rumour has it Wellbelove even put a photo of your Bakewell tart on Instagram—not that I've looked. I hear it’s very impressive.”

“Oh,” I say. I didn't know that. “Cheers.”

I don't think he's ever complimented me before.

I _do_ make a pretty wicked Bakewell tart. Cherry jam, marzipan, slivered almonds...you can't go wrong.

“I simply don't feel it's practical to take on the burden ourselves, when we could outsource the task to somebody else. Leave our hands free for other things.”

I know exactly the sort of things he wants his hands free for. (Murdering. Plotting. Running them through his hair when he takes it out of its bun, and it's gone all wavy.) But I guess it makes sense, and even though I still think it's shitty to use his cousin's company, it's not like there are many caterers in London who could pull together party food at such short notice.

“If Dev can't do it we find a non-Grimm company, alright? Completely fucking Grimmless. And tell him he needs to cater for everyone, not just meat-eaters. Veggie sandwiches, and at least one pizza needs to have pineapple on it.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. (I have no idea what kind of pizza Baz likes. Or sandwiches. I've never seen him eat in the office.)

“Very well.”

“And I'm still baking my own stuff. Biscuits—I make really good custard creams. And you have to try them.”

He spits his tea out all over his legs. (His trousers are damp. Clingy.) “Homemade _custard creams?_ As in, the common household biscuit you can buy ten packets of at the supermarket for two pounds? Come off it, Snow. Nobody makes their own _custard creams_.”

“I do. They're good. Ask Penny.”

“I would never willingly exchange words with Bunce, Snow. You know that.”

I shrug. He claims to not like Penny— he thinks she's too clever for her own good. “Suit yourself, but I'm still going to bake. It'll make the party more personal if it isn't all catered and professional.”

"It's going to be last-minute pizza and hastily assembled sandwiches, Snow. Far from professional." He slides back in his seat, frowning into his empty mug. I take another look at his email—way too wordy, like every other one he sends—and remember my earlier point.

“I was serious about Pin The Tail On The Donkey.”

He raises his hands and drops them in his lap. “The party's to be held on the roof terrace; there's nowhere else to put us. I'm afraid we're rather pushed for space.”

"There's the patio area. Put up a board or something. I want streamers, too. Paper streamers hanging off everything."

"Which part of _roof terrace_ don't you understand? There's nothing to hang streamers _from_."

“There's that thing. The wooden thing that plants grow on. Plant fence.”

“The _trellis?”_

“Yeah. Hang streamers off that. You could get some of those shimmery silvery ones—when it gets dark, it'll be like stars.”

Baz looks at me strangely. (It must be a full minute before he blinks.) “That's not a completely horrible idea. I'll look into it.”

I grin. Does that count as another compliment? Two in one day?

“Thanks. And to make it fair, for every idea I put in, you can have something. So you have the catering, I have custard creams. I have silver streamers, and you can have...well, what do you want?”

He gives me another strange look. "Nothing you can provide," he says slowly.

What does _that_ mean? Sometimes I want to knock the smirk right off his face. Just run my fingers all over his cheeks, his neck, his mouth, until he's totally blank and I can't feel him looking at me.

Baz reaches into the top drawer of my desk, wincing at the mess. He's always uptight about me touching his pens, but he doesn't seem to care about _my_ things. He's always handling my stationery. After a minute of rummaging, he fishes out a sheet of blank paper and a chewed pen, and starts making notes.

“Trifle,” he says, writing it down. Then he grins back at me. “I would like a trifle. And I suppose it _would_ be rather amusing to see Penelope Bunce in a party hat.”


	2. Things we (don’t) know about the party

**BAZ**

The rest of the morning is spent locked in negotiations with Snow. To my surprise—and his immense credit—we make progress with minimal distractions. He _does_ get sidetracked at lunch time, heading downstairs to find tomato sauce for his sandwich...he gets lost and calls up to the office for help. (It's the first time we've spoken on the phone without one of us telling the other to piss off.) I agree to go downstairs and retrieve him, though I wonder why he's called _me_ for help, instead of Bunce.

I find him next to a cleaning supply cupboard on the forty-first floor, clutching his bare sandwich, eyes as wide as two dinner plates.

“Let's get you back upstairs, Snow.”

“What does this place have against condiments? There's no tomato sauce _anywhere_.”

“Come with me. I know where to find some.”

I take him to the row of lifts. For a building of such absurd size, there are only four: three go from the ground to the sixtieth floors, and the other—marked by its gold doors—continues on to the sixty-first and sixty-second floors. It’s the executive lift and I make a point of not using it—I'd rather take the civilian lift to floor sixty and face two flights of stairs than come face to face with a board member.

On this occasion, it's the executive lift we head for. It's rarely used, accessible only by select members of staff—Snow and I both have keycards, his dog-eared and worn on a lanyard around his neck in place of his staff ID (which he lost in the first week). I pull mine out of my pocket and scan it, calling the lift down from its lofty heights.

“We can't use that one,” Snow hisses, a piece of lettuce tumbling from his sandwich. He looks me up and down. (I don't know how I feel about that.) “ _You_ look good, but I'm not dressed properly.”

I take a moment to bask in the glow of his almost-praise: _You look good._ Snow wears an interesting array of hoodies, ripped jeans, tracksuit bottoms and baggy jumpers to work. I've often imagined what he'd look like in a suit, finding myself particularly focused on the belt, for some unfathomable reason.

The gold doors slide open: the executive lift is empty. I usher him inside, scanning my card again and choosing our destination.

“Baz, that's sixty-second. We're on the next floor down.”

“I know where our office is. Did you drink a bottle of correction fluid this morning? I'm going to get you some tomato sauce.”

He seems determined to argue. “I'm _not_ going to the executive kitchen, Baz. I'd rather starve. I'd rather eat a plain sandwich.”

“No you wouldn't. You have a keycard, Snow; you're an Executive Clerk. You're as entitled to be there as I am.”

He stuffs his sandwich into his face, laughing through a mouthful of mashed crust. He garbles, “See? Don't need sauce. Let's go back to the office and work on the plan.”

I could press the point, but I need him to cooperate until at least five o' clock, possibly beyond. “Very well.” I redirect the lift to the sixty-first floor, and we rise the rest of the way in peace. “But you should go up there one day. You're allowed. In fact, I'll show you around tomorrow, when we're readying the terrace.”

He doesn't answer, but he lets me hold the office door open for him without complaint.

**SIMON**

Planning the party with Baz isn't as bad I'd expected it to be. It's actually pretty nice to have something to do. Sometimes at work I lose track of how bored I am...the hours blend together, and then before I know it, it's time to go home and lie on the sofa in my pants, eating Wotsits. (Penny hates it when I do that. She says that not all things in life need to be seen.) ( _She's_ the one who asked me to move in. She either accepts all or none of me, you know?)

It's time to show Baz a secret side of me.

I walk over to the messy half of the office—my side, basically—and wheel out the whiteboard. Baz doesn't like me using it because he says the squeaking marker pens annoy him. He complained once that I left the cap off the red one too long and it dried out, so now he hides them from me. I've got the board rubber though, and that comes in handy—I chuck it at him. (I've got good aim. It bounces off his head.)

“What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Got any markers? Preferably two or more colours.”

He scowls and opens the locked drawer in his desk. (He's so dramatic. He literally wears the key on a hair bobble around his wrist.) (I wonder what else he keeps in there? He refuses to let me see inside.) Two markers smack me in the face—black and blue, which is, as always, annoyingly on point.

“Cheers, y'prick.”

“You’re welcome, Snow.”

I attempt a Pitch-standard sneer but once again, I fall short. Oh well.

Baz is going to learn something about me. It won’t be a masterpiece—Penny's better at this than I am, the whole planning thing—but it’ll be adequate. And considering the fuckers only gave us one day to pull this off, I'd say adequate will have to do.

Dear Baz, number one on the list of things you didn't know about me until today:

_Simon Snow can write the fuck out of a list._

**BAZ**

It's almost too much to take in. Simon dips and dives about the whiteboard like an ink-riddled dervish, swerving and rolling under and over the words like he was born to do this. Like he’s the One True Maker of Lists, the _Chosen One_ , and we are all mere apprentices, here on this earth to learn from the master.

His handwriting could do with some work, and he seems to enjoy abusing question marks like they're going out of fashion, but within minutes of me almost taking out his eye with a marker pen, he's made two garrulous-yet-practical lists for us to work from:

* * *

**_Things we know about the party:_ **

_1\. when: tomorrow - !!!_

_2\. where: 62_ _nd_ _floor – roof terrace_

_3\. food – baz's cousin's dev's non-neptoism company ???_

_4\. party hats & streamers _

_5\. trifle ??? sandwiches._

_6\. simon making custard creams._

**_Things we don't know about the party:_ **

_1\. who's doing the music?????_

_2\. is there a costume/dress code???_

_3\. what time does it start/end?_

_4\. do people need to bring a date or a plus + one ??_

_5\. how do we all get up to the roof terrace if only like five people in the whole_ ~~_country_~~ _company have key cards for the posh snob floor??? can we reasonably expect drunk people to safely not die on the stairs???_

_6\. who is bringing the alcohol ???_

_7\. are we allowed to get drunk in front of Baz parents??????_

_8\. do we need to ban people from uploading pics to an internet?_

_9\. is this a formal party or can I / everyone else wear trainers??_

_10\. what exactly are we celebrating?_

_11\. is it a good idea to have some people not drink so the messy people can get home safely???_

_12\. does there need to be an email invite sent out to everyone or has Baz already done it??? should i make a poster?? can I use wordart?_

* * *

I have to wrestle the pen from his hands to make him stop. I admire Snow's thoroughness: he's thought of everything, from entertainment to safety and logistics.

“Are you sure you're not secretly in the party planning business, Snow? This is highly productive, given your usual lackadaisical standards.”

He shrugs. (Does he know what lackadaisical means?) He's managed to smear ink down the side of his hand, rubbing mistakes off the board. He also appears to have broken a sweat, which I ought not contemplate right now...not when we still have so much to do, and four paid hours in which to do it.

“I hate parties,” he declares, passing me the blue marker. “Large groups of people? No thanks.”

“Same here. Though I admit, I had you down for the painfully sociable type.”

“Why? Because I talk a lot? I only really hang out with Penelope. After I'm done here I'm not in the mood for other people.”

"Not even the girls on twenty-second, or whichever floor it is? Wellbelove, and so forth?"

"Nope. When I finish work I'm talked-out for the day."

I can't help but take it personally. Is it me, exhausting him so utterly? We can count the number of civil conversations we’ve shared on one hand, though the arguments would fill a ledger or two.

“What first, then? I'm afraid I don't know any last-minute DJs.”

I stand before the whiteboard, hands on hips, considering the daunting list of things yet to be accomplished. Beside me, Snow scratches his neck, then leans forward to circle a number with the black pen.

“Penny's brother's in a band. Let me send a text and see what she can do.”

I try to disguise my smile before it can take over and ruin every wall I've worked hard to build up, over the past three months. _And so it begins_ , I think to myself. I circle numbers two and three in blue, and get to work.

**SIMON**

It's got to be said, when Baz has a task to do and isn't left to insult me and threaten to beat me to death with a hole punch, he's actually pretty efficient. Before two o' clock arrives we've got times sorted—kick off at seven, over at midnight, with an hour for everyone to get out afterwards before security lock up—and the dress code. (It's too short notice for costumes and tuxedo rental, so everyone can wear whatever they want.) (That's good news for me.) He's also drafted an email—not _too_ wordy—inviting everyone tomorrow night. He used different colours and fonts and it looks dead jazzy.

I send the same email from my account. We decide that most people probably ignore Baz's name in their inbox, on account of his boring newsletters. Seeing as I never, _ever_ send emails, those people might see my name and be shocked into opening it.

I also make a poster in Paint—my thinking being that if there’s anyone else like me in the building, those people probably won’t check their emails at all. It’s not my best work, but it’s got the main points covered, and it can’t hurt to send a few to the lower floors and stir up a bit of interest.

Baz says I can use his photocopier. (It’s not _his_ , it’s the company’s, but he never lets me use it.) I put the sheet under the lifty-up part and look at the buttons, chewing my lip.

“Alright there, Snow?”

I press the green one that in any sane situation would mean _Go! Begin! Get on with it!_ , but it does nothing. I raise a fist to employ my usual _smash it until something happens_ technique when I become aware of him behind me, reaching an arm around like earlier, fingers dancing over the options screen.

“Twenty copies?” he breathes in my ear. “Or thirty?”

“Thirty,” I rasp, my throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, thirty—that’ll do.”

He changes the quantity setting and lifts the lid to check the position of my poster. He adjusts it slightly, and, still with his arms either side of me, drops it back down.

“It’s ready.”

“Well then,” I say, feeling a burn race across my cheeks. “Let’s be having you.” I mash at the screen again, and then his hand’s over mine, guiding me to the black START button. “Makes no sense,” I mutter. “Should be the green one.” He pushes against me, and then _I_ push, and the machine kicks into life. Baz steps back, fingers trailing over the back of my hand.

“See?” he murmurs. “No need to work yourself up.”

I _am_ worked up, and I’m not sure why. I’ve watched Baz use the photocopier loads of times. I even sat around and watched him as he changed the toner once—pulling out the long, magenta cartridge and sliding in a new one...he was graceful about it. Efficient. _Strong_. I like that if anything goes wrong with the copier, Baz automatically knows how to fix it. (He _really_ knows his way around a paper jam.)

We call up one of the lesser interns from fiftieth (Baz calls them that, not me) and he leans seductively in the doorway, asking the unseen bloke to distribute my posters.

“Oh yes, _certainly,_ Oliver—sellotape them to pillars, above water fountains, near the vending machines. Anywhere that draws a crowd.”

The bloke in the doorway ( _Oliver_ ) (what kind of stupid name is _that?_ ) must say something pretty fucking funny, because Baz is tossing his head back, laughing. I watch him tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, and I wheel my chair over so I can get a good look at this _Oliver_. (I mean, if something unprofessional is happening, I need to know so I can put a stop to it.)

He’s nothing special. Short, curly hair, blue eyes. Doesn’t look that funny to me, but I suppose I’m not really an expert in these things. (Baz frequently tells me I’m the least entertaining thing alive.) Oliver makes an utterly non-hilarious comment about the lift doors and Baz is laughing again, sliding an arm above his head and leaning his hip against the door frame.

Fucking _outrageous_. All this work to be done, and he’s...he’s _liaising_ with the paper boy!

“Uh, _excuse_ me?” I say, getting up off my chair and nudging Baz out of the way. “Oscar, is it? Orville?”

“Oliver.”

“Nobody cares. We’ve got a lot going on so if you could just, y’know, stick the posters up, that’d be grand. Unless you don’t understand the task? Not being funny mate, but there are sixty floors of interns for us Executive Clerks to call on, yeah? You’re not the Chosen One.”

The intern sticks his chin out and looks like he’s going to make an argument of it, but Baz steps over to my computer—it’s started beeping—and he’s got no one else to impress. I watch the fight in Oliver die slowly, right behind his eyes.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s got a mole under his left eye. I want to flick it until he goes away.

“Cheers, Olls.” I shut the door in his face. _Knob._

When I turn around, Baz is perched on the edge of my desk, one eyebrow reaching for the ceiling. “What was that in aid of, Snow?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, pushing my chair back to where it belongs. “Interns, right? What are they like?” I huff a laugh and wait until his face looks a bit less judgmental. (Well, he always looks like he’s judging _something_.) (He’s smirking a bit too, and I don’t know what he finds so fucking funny, all of a sudden.)

Baz moves the cursor over my computer screen, and I see what he’s so interested in. Replies and questions have already started arriving in my inbox—looks like the Simon Snow Surprise Email strategy worked. We invited the whole building, not really knowing how many can fit on the terrace...but it looks like some people are actually going to turn up.

Baz stretches, crosses off two, three, four (plus-ones are allowed) and twelve on the board, then looks back at me, lounging in his seat. (He's rolled his chair over to my desk again; it makes sense if we do everything at the same computer, so we know exactly where we are.) I watch him neatly circle five and seven, then run his hands through his hair. He usually wears it up, but it's down around his shoulders now, and he keeps messing with it.

This might be the closest thing to casual he's ever been. He's like a different person. (Still bossy, mind you.)

“I'll go upstairs and see Daphne. Find out what can be done about the lifts, and ask for a verdict on the alcohol situation. She likely won't come to the party herself—she's usually on a date night with my father on Fridays."

“Date night?” I can't imagine Daphne Grimm doing anything romantic. She's like a very polite, financially secure robot.

"Yes, it's sickeningly twee."

"That's terrible."

“Indeed.” He's taken his suit jacket off and slung it over the back of his chair. Underneath he's wearing a dark green waistcoat, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I keep looking at his wrists—I don't know why I find them so interesting. Maybe because I've never noticed them before? “Won't be a minute,” he says, but then he stands by the window and talks to himself.

I reckon he's building up the courage to go upstairs.

_Not so easy, is it?_

_And while you’re out there, you_ can’t _flirt with interns._

My mobile phone vibrates on the desk. It's Penelope. I shoot Baz a worried look: he goes ballistic if I take personal calls in the office. “It's probably about the band,” I say quickly.

“You know how Bunces don't like to be kept waiting,” he says, and then we both smile at each other.

Today's _so_ weird.

I answer the phone as he goes out into the corridor.

“Hi Pen,” I say. “Can you come to the office?”

Penny loves working in art and design. (She makes all the company graphics and goes on these epic rants about flowchart colour schemes.) She never wants to hear about my day at work because she thinks I work for—no joke— _the executive devil club_. I tell her that the devil club technically includes her mum, but she's convinced Mitali's actually working from the inside to bring down the corporate machine. I don't blame Penny for not wanting to work up here—I guess if I could get a job on a lower floor, I would. But then...I wouldn't have this view. And it's always hard getting to know new people, isn't it? Baz might want to staple my mouth shut, but he's a known entity. I know exactly what I'm dealing with. I know him inside out, from head to toe.

Penny campaigned for me to move offices, when I first started complaining about Baz...but I don't think anybody reads _her_ emails, either.

 _"I thought you'd never ask,"_ she says. I can hear her moving stuff around in the background. _"I'll be right up, once I've shouted at someone in IT. Are you and Basil being civil?"_

"Yeah," I grunt, then put the phone down before she can ask any awkward questions. "She's coming up."

Then I remember Baz has gone, and I'm talking to myself.

**PENELOPE**

"I can't believe you wrote a list without me!"

It's not the nicest way to greet someone upon entering a room, but how _could_ he? Simon knows how much I enjoy a good list-writing session. (Still, at least it means the two of them were actually doing something besides trying to kill each other.)

Simon's sitting in his chair staring out of the window, idly dragging his heels on the plastic floor protector.

I notice that number one on his _Things we don't know_ list remains unticked, and I can guess what I've been summoned to the sixty-first floor for.

“Simon, are you about to be a pain and ask unreasonable things of me?”

He doesn't answer. He's still looking out of the window. The sun's coming through at an odd angle, making us both squint—I cross to fiddle with the blinds, and he practically employs a rugby tackle to take me down before I can get a hand around the cord.

"What the bloody hell are you _doing?"_

"Penny, you can't fuck with the blinds." He points at Basilton's repulsive sheet of paper, stapled above his desk. "Rule seven."

"I did _not_ come up here to obey unreasonable rules and ignore common sense, Simon."

He shrugs. "Alright. It's on your head, though. He'll _know._ "

I laugh. (Nervously. Simon and Baz's terrifying office dynamic will do that to an otherwise rational person.)

I decide not to mess with the blinds, for Simon's sake. We both know that no matter who does what inside this office, he gets the blame.

"What can I help with, then? Is it the music? I've got a _killer_ party playlist."

**SIMON**

I really hope Penny will go along with this. She's my best friend but she must get sick of me, sometimes. “The music. Well, look—not a playlist exactly, but...do you—could you—like, would you mind finding out if Premal's band are free tomorrow night? Me and Baz thought maybe a live band would be better? And if we can't get one, then yeah, your playlist would be great. What do you think?”

There's silence for a bit, then she turfs me out of my chair and starts pressing buttons on her phone.

“It's alright if he can't. I can bring my laptop and hook your speakers up to Spotify, or something. Just thought I'd ask...live music's always better, right? And I know they mostly do covers and stuff, but that'd be great. There's gonna be beer and wine, so...yeah. We can pay them, too. Baz has a got a budget. Drunk people really won't care what they're listening to after the first hour, so...”

I listen to Penny breathe loudly. She's still ignoring me and I can't tell if I've pissed her off; my brain wants my mouth to keep producing words to occupy the silence. Eventually, she looks up from her phone. "What's wrong, Simon? That's a marvellous idea. I've already fired off a couple of texts. The drummer’s on holiday in Skegness, but my old uni flatmate’s been filling in. Remember Trixie?"

“Really? I mean, thanks! That's brilliant. Thanks, Penny. And...Trixie with the mad hair?"

"Yes, that’s the one. Suits her. And it’s no problem, it'll be good exposure for them—something to put on the band's website to whip up a bit of interest. We'd best set up the laptop and playlist anyway, in case they run out of songs."

I feel relief flood through me. "Yeah. Brilliant. You're the best."

She smiles at me from my chair, phone lighting up with notifications. Premal's trying to call her, but before she picks up, she asks, "How has it been then, working with Baz?"

_Working with Baz._

"It's going well. He hasn't said he'll strangle me with his tie yet, so..."

“Has he stabbed you with his compass today? Drawn nasty pictures on copier paper and stuck it on the wall in the corridor for everyone to see?”

“No, he's been fine. He's been...nice. Probably because he wants something.” I tack that last bit on quickly. I don't want to sound _too_ eager. “You'd better take that call, Pen. I'll owe every Bunce in existence a million favours."

She sighs, still smiling at me _._ "Just bake me a tray of your famous custard creams, Simon, and we'll call it even."

**BAZ**

When I return to the office Simon is at the whiteboard again, making another list. Thankfully there’s no clueless intern blocking the doorway, reducing Snow to his most base form of jealousy. (As horrifically arousing as his destruction of Oliver was to witness, I need him to focus on the task at hand.) Bunce is here instead, purple pen in hand (did she pick the lock on my drawer?), attacking the board with a level of enthusiasm I halt to admire. This time they’re chiefly concerned with food—namely, what finger foods and appetisers can be prepared at short notice.

“My cousin agreed to cater,” I say, loosening my tie and slumping down in _his_ chair, instead of my own. I quite like this informal, day-long meeting we're engaged in. Neither of us has tried to kill the other, and we’re putting in equal effort on the project. It's splendid. “Dev's bringing suitable buffet fare—sandwiches, sweets...for all manner of dietary preferences, too.”

I take a moment to glare at Bunce, so she might understand her place within the office hierarchy. She soundly ignores me.

“Yeah, but, Baz—do you know how much drunk people like to eat? There's a point you reach when you're on a bender where nothing matters but food. There was whatever came before in your life, and there's the drunken abyss, and then there's a greasy kebab and chips. You know?”

I feel my eyebrow rise of its own accord. “No, I do _not_.” I’ve never been drunk—alcohol has always thoroughly bored me. The concept of being _on a bender_ is a foreign entity, and I would much prefer to keep it that way.

“Trust me, we need loads of snacks and junk food. A table for Dev's proper stuff, then three tables of utter shite.”

“Fine. Proceed with your list of utter shite, then.”

He does. Bunce stems the tide of purple ink long enough to ask, “What did Mrs Grimm say? And Simon, include a vegetable _please,_ for the sake of decency.”

I lean back in Snow's chair and begin to spin idly, looking at the ceiling. “Daphne won't be attending herself, due to a suspected date night with my father, and so we're free to behave accordingly. Her exact words were: _Do as you please, Basil. Just don't burn down the building._ ” I tilt my head to admire their shopping list—they’ve been all sorts of thorough. The whiteboard is getting rather crowded now, and Snow’s handwriting grows increasingly cramped and squiggly as he struggles to make room for each new frantic thought.

"I’m not sure we'll be able to manage all of that, Snow. Can't you narrow it down to a few steadfast favourites?"

"Need all of it," he mutters, continuing to scribble. "Every last bit. All of it's vital to the continuing operation of the business."

_...what?_

* * *

**_menu of utter shite_ **

_crackers that come in a selection box. some are cheesy. some are not._

_stuff to put on crackers_

_crisps, pringles, cheesy Quavers_

_fun size chocolate bars  
_

_full size chocolate bars because fun size ones aren’t all that fun_

_mini sausage rolls_

_mini sausages on sticks_

_little bits of cheese and pineapple on sticks_

_anything else on a stick_

_pink wafers_

_jammie dodgers_

_those circle biscuits with icing and a hole in the middle ????_

_celery sticks (A VEGETABLE)  
_

_bowl of nuts and raisins_

_bowl of nuts for non-raisin eaters_

_maybe not nuts because allergies???_

_fish finger sandwiches_

* * *

“Done,” he says, finally satisfied. “And drinks? Is your cousin doing that?”

I shake my head. He's looking at me, and the afternoon sun's in the perfect position to illuminate the mess of curls he's hassling, until it sticks out at all angles. I check the time: ninety minutes left in the day. Snow's first out of the building when five o’clock arrives—he'd abseil down from our office, if he could. Anything to close the distance between him and the Tube station.

“Dev can't do drinks, but not to worry. I'll go to the supermarket tonight and get a bit of everything.”

He crosses his arms and taps his foot, like I've said something displeasing.

“You can't just buy charla... _champagne_ and call it a day, Baz. You need to get stuff for everyone. Beer, cider, that fizzy sparkly stuff that isn't quite wine, _actual_ wine, apple juice, fizzy water for the lunatics, still water for everyone else...maybe we should find a way to do tea and coffee, in case someone needs it after all the booze...” He's shaking his head, and the marker pen goes flying out of his hand to land somewhere under my desk. “Sorry. I'll find it in a bit. Just, we need options.”

"Fizzy sparkly stuff that isn't quite wine...? Do you mean spritzer, Simon?" Penny asks, puzzled.

"He called champagne _charlatan_ earlier, so I wouldn't expect him to know the word _spritzer._ "

"Oi!" Snow barks. “That’s not important right now.”

“I'll get a bit of everything, don't worry. Any news on the band?”

Bunce makes a grand show of pointing out number one on the board—it's crossed out, and she's written the words CATERPILLAR MOUSTACHE down one side, in lopsided purple capitals.

“CATERPILLAR MOUSTACHE? What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“That's the band. They all had awful facial hair for a while, and the name proved divisive enough to win them some attention on Twitter. Is it too complicated for you, Basil?"

I sneer at her. Snow decides he needs to contribute his own bewildering opinion. "Caterpillars...with moustaches. Don't be a prick about it, Baz—they're a cover band, alright? It’s hilarious.”

I wish to avoid becoming embroiled in an argument between these two infuriating specimens. It's like trying to swim through concrete. I swallow the abysmal band name and ask if there's anything else we've failed to address.

"Simon's done an excellent job of listing things. It seems you're well on track to have a party put together by tomorrow." Bunce sounds chirpier than I feel, but she's right that my colleague has thus far done an excellent job.

“What about the lifts?" he asks now, chewing the end of the marker pen. (Everything I own has his teeth marks pressed into it, it seems.) "Getting up and down from the terrace easily. Must be navigatable by drunk people.”

"Navigable," Bunce whispers. Snow shrugs.

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“No you haven’t, Simon. It’s a common mistake. The word’s—”

“Daphne says she'll ask security to disable the keycard reader on the executive lift,” I say loudly, before things can get _too_ linguistic. “It'll be fixed to move between the ground floor and sixty-second, so we don't lose guests on the floors between. My keycard will still work on all floors, in case we _do_ need access for any reason. We're to put up some sort of boarding or partition to prevent the rabble from wandering around the rest of sixty-second, and instead direct them straight to the terrace...Daphne will remove the lift restrictions on Monday morning.”

Bunce puts her hand in the air, as though we're at school. "Oh! I know where there are unused display boards. On wheels, too. We could put those end-to-end on the sixty-second floor, and block off the forbidden bits?"

“That would be excellent. Need a hand moving those?"

"No," she says, typing on her phone. "The IT department owes me a favour or two. I'll get right on it."

"Sorted, aren't we?” Snow says, grinning. I must admit, it's infectious.

“It seems so."

Bunce hovers in the doorway, looking at us strangely. She mutters a few choice words under her breath, tells Snow to call her if he needs anything else, then disappears into the corridor.

**SIMON**

By the time five o' clock hits, we've got a steady plan for tomorrow's party. I can't believe it, really. When Baz first hit me with the news, it seemed hopeless. Now look at us—we've only put aside our differences and prepared a crap-to-average staff party. How's that for initiative, Mrs CEO?

My computer's shutting down and I'm halfway out the door before I realise Baz is still at his desk, fiddling with the top button on his shirt. (I wait until he's finished unfastening it before I interrupt. S’only polite.)

“What’s wrong?”

He gets up and crosses to me, holding out a sheet of paper. I take a look and see that he’s typed up a summary of our day, with time stamps and everything. (He’s proper good at this sort of stuff. I can’t see a single spelling mistake or misplaced colon.) (Not that I'd notice, really.)

“Punch holes in it for me, Snow? Four evenly-spaced holes, if you would.”

I frown but do as I’m told. (Today’s been so good, I’m in no mood to argue.) The hole punch is on the shelves behind my desk, so I drag it over and line up the paper. “Do you need me to file it?” I ask. He doesn’t usually trust me with the filing cabinet—he called me _the end of all logical order_ , once—but maybe things will be different now that we’ve worked together.

He’s quiet. I put the hole punch back and look up to see him staring at me, clutching a folder against his chest.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a project ring binder, Snow.”

“A ring…? What?”

He puts it down on the desk and opens it so the metal spikes are sticking up in the air. There’s an index card inside the front cover: _SNOW/PITCH COLLABORATIVE WORKS. ITEM 1: THE STAFF PARTY._

“When I learnt I was to be getting a new office mate, I prepared this for our projects,” he says quickly, tucking his hair behind his ears and not quite looking at me. “It needn’t be a fiasco, but we finally have something to put in it, after today. Would you mind?”

I swallow, picking up the punched paper and hovering over the spikes. It’s not like any folder I’ve used before—there are four holes instead of two, and this weird clip thing I have to push down and slide off, then—

Luckily, Baz is here like he was with the copier, helping me. _(Guiding_ me.) He gets the paper lined up properly, and together we push it into place.

“So many holes, Baz. Seems unnecessary.” My face is getting hot again.

“But holes...they want to be filled, Simon,” he whispers, as we close the ring binder together. “That’s what office storage solutions are for.”

We break apart, and he whisks the binder away and places it on a shelf, between the staff handbook and a thick folder of financial regulations. I make it all the way out of the office and into the corridor before realising he hasn’t followed.

“Aren't you coming?”

He’s sitting at his desk again, fixing me with his usual _what the bleeding hell do you want now, Snow_? look. (Except this time it comes without the sharp end of a pencil being jabbed into my arm.)

“We need to go to the supermarket,” I remind him, pointing at the mess on the board. (Me and Penny got a bit carried away.) (I really love party food.) (And I really love lists.)

Both of his eyebrows go up at the same time. That must be maximum surprise level—I've never seen him do it before. “ _We_ need to...? You want us both to go?”

“Well, yeah? I don't have a car, so I'll have to jump in with you. Don't worry, I won't make you take me home after. You can just drop me near a Tube station, if that's alright.”

He stands up, knocking over his mug. (He doesn't even stop to wipe up the spill or blame it on me.) “Oh. Really? Right. Well, then. Of course. Are you sure you'll feel safe, alone in a car with me?"

I shrug. "You won't kill me before the party. You'd have to find time to hide my body, and like, we're already on a pretty tight deadline." I'm hoping it sounds funny, because that's how I mean it, and he _does_ laugh. I'd forgotten what Baz's laughter was like. (It's nice. Musical.)

"Let's get going, then. And I _will_ drive you home afterwards—I can't leave you to roam the streets of London at night, you'll never be heard from again. Now, will you remember everything on the list or would you like me to write it down?”

“I never forget food. It’s in here, Baz. In my _brain_.”

“Noted.”

He follows me to the door and I follow him to the lifts.

We go all the way down and outside, and we don't argue once.


	3. It's not a party without fish finger sandwiches

**BAZ**

It's half past eight in the morning and the office is a battlefield.

"What are you swearing at? It's too early for that sort of racket."

His fist hovers above the keyboard. Any other day and I'd berate him for his insolence, but...

Today, I need him on my side. I need us to be a team.

"Somebody's messed with my computer calendar. It's empty."

I sigh, praying inwardly for the tact to make it through the day without a Snow-shaped hole drilled through my patience. (He’s always drilling me. Drill after drill after drill—it’s a miracle I’m still standing at the end of a shift.) "It was me, I cleared both our schedules. Don't try and say you had something vital going on—the only thing in your calendar was your lunch break, wherein you'd set yourself to DO NOT DISTURB."

He stares at me sullenly. (Is it just my imagination, or is he wearing a slightly nicer t-shirt than usual?) "Oh. Sorry. Lunch _is_ important, though."

I remove my jacket and begin unbuttoning my cuffs. Out of the corner of my eye I see Snow watching me keenly. "You’ll want to stuff your face with the fruits of your own buffet planning tonight, so save ample room for that. No foot-long subs washed down with a litre of Sprite, do you hear me?” He’s kicking the wheels of his chair, sucking his bottom lip. I sigh. “We have the keys to the roof terrace, and if anyone tries to disrupt us, I can scowl well enough for two." I take a deep breath and look around the room. The office doesn't feel quite as stuffy this morning. I wonder why that is. "Shall we get started?"

The food and drinks we bought last night are piled up in the boot of my car. (On the backseat, too. I drive a convertible—it was _not_ built for Simon Snow’s appetite.)

I wasn't expecting shopping with Snow to be such an exhausting event. I tend to approach my weekly tour of Waitrose with a regimented sense of defeat: head directly for what I want, don't get distracted, never shop hungry. Snow's approach was much more... _free-spirited._ He zigzagged up and down aisles at random, circling the entire place three times before making a single decision, loading the trolley with whatever called out to him. It was like he was _at one_ with the bagged fruit, _in sync_ with the tinned tomatoes, _harmonised_ with the long-life milk. At one point I leaned against a chiller cabinet in the frozen food section, wrecked and broken by his relentless pursuit of fish fingers, until I begged him to stop.

“It’s not a party without fish finger sandwiches,” he hissed, reaching past me to scavenge from the nearest unsuspecting shelf. “And if you see any bags of mini sausage rolls, Baz, don’t be shy— _gut the aisle._ ”

“This is a _Waitrose_ , Snow, not a back-alley Co-Op. If there’s so much as a single mini sausage roll in this entire building, I’ll gouge my own eye out with a set square.”

When we finally reached the till he had the sudden, dawning realisation we'd have to pay for his madness. I wish I'd had a camera to immortalise his expression in that moment—and the face that followed shortly thereafter, when I pulled out my wallet. (I put everything on the company credit card.) (If the board wants a last-minute party, they're picking up the tab.)

Simon had never been in that particular branch of Waitrose before. ( _My_ Waitrose.) And judging by the look on the security guard’s face as I loaded our bags into the Jag, Simon taking a brief sojourn to spin around the car park whilst perched atop an empty trolley, he won’t be welcomed back.

It was a memorable evening, in all imaginable ways. An experience I’ll neither forget nor fully recover from. (It was also frightfully exhilarating. I’ve never seen a man handle a bag of mixed nuts with such confidence.) (The way his fingers danced over the packets of biscuits, seeking out broken ones...well, I was hardly fit to focus on our rapidly escalating costs.)

I wanted to rope a few lower-floor minions into carrying the supplies upstairs, but before I dropped him off last night, Snow insisted we do everything ourselves. _“It’s our party, Baz,”_ he said, still high on his lurid post-supermarket adrenaline rush. _“Let’s keep it in the office, yeah?”_ (I'm not sure who he needs to prove a point to...perhaps himself.) (Before we parted ways, he muttered something obscene about Oliver the intern and rolled up his sleeves, which about had my knees buckling.) (I had to drive home at ten miles an hour, all the while trying not to think about how he’d looked in the bakery section, absentmindedly working his finger through a crusty baguette.)

I was up late after I dropped him off, for one reason or another. And now, we have the best part of nine hours to get things looking ship-shape.

There's a tray on Snow's desk. I look at it intently, unabashedly curious. When he’s calmed down enough to click away from his empty calendar, he lifts off a patterned tea towel to reveal what's underneath.

**SIMON**

I was up late last night, well into the early hours. I can't wait to see the look on Baz's face when he realises what I was doing.

Custard creams, mate. Homemade. Penny helped with the filling, but otherwise I got it done by myself. (She asked if he filled the trolley with caviar and saffron.) (He didn't. He _did_ try to buy a truffle, but I said no when I realised it wasn't made of chocolate.)

“Here. Pitch. Try this.”

I shove a biscuit into his open mouth and watch him choke. (It's never too early for me to try and prove Baz wrong. Might as well get it out of the way, so we can focus on the party stuff.) I watch him chew, swallow, wipe crumbs from his lips with the back of a hand. Then he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs his face, never taking his eyes off me.

“What do you think? Good enough for the masses?”

He answers by stepping past me and digging around on the tray for another biscuit.

“More than satisfactory, Snow. You _are_ full of surprises.”

I'm also full of dough. (You have to try things as you go along, else you can't be sure it's any good.)

“Cheers.”

We stand around, staring awkwardly at our feet and the Blu Tack stains on the walls. We're into weird neutral territory now, and I'm looking at Baz out of the corner of my eye, trying to think of what I can say that won't make him empty the waste paper basket over my head. (He's done that before. I was picking bits of banana peel out of my hair for _days._ ) He's wearing nice trousers today—snug at the waist, fitted in all the right places. I can't compliment Baz's trousers, though—he'll choke me to death with one of the legs. I take a quick inventory of the rest of him and, as usual, he looks nice all over.

Best go for the least dangerous part of him.

“Like your shoes.” Fuck. What if he kicks me with them?

“Excuse me?”

He's pulled apart the biscuit with his teeth, and is licking at the filling. It's both the best and worst thing I've ever seen and I don't know how long I can watch him swirl his tongue around without forgetting how to speak English.

“They're shiny. Your shoes. I like them.”

He looks at me, then down at his feet.

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

Shit, I'm a prat sometimes. ( _All_ of the time.)

“Shall we go downstairs before the frozen food melts all over your car?”

“Yes, let's. Any damages are coming out of _your_ salary, Snow.”

“Not fucking likely.”

**BAZ**

It's on our third run between car and terrace that I finally ask him. I admit that it's not the most opportune moment—we're both frustrated and sweaty, grasping the scope of the ludicrous task we've been set. (If he'd just let me make use of those minions, we'd be in far better shape.) (Perhaps if I hadn't actually used the word _minions_ , he would've been more amenable to outside help.)

“The invitation encouraged everyone to bring a guest, yes?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, hefting a crate of non-alcoholic beer into the open lift. (We've propped the door open with stacks of paper towels.) (The good, sturdy sort. Snow has informed me that _people on a bender cause spillages_.) “Plus-one.” He stands up, rubbing the base of his spine. I realise I'm staring, hair plastered to my forehead in a manner most uncouth. I'm a mess, and it's not even eleven o' clock.

I feel a flutter of tugging nerves, imagining myself asking Snow if he'd like to attend the party with _me_. (How disgusting.) Then I realise he has little choice but to arrive on my arm, or within the near vicinity—we are, after all, co-hosts. (Like Ant and Dec. Although that would be oddly incestuous, I suppose.) ( _Are_ they related?)

“Might I ask who you're bringing tonight?”

I don't know what I want him to say. Is there an answer that won't upset me? Word around the break room is that Snow had a girlfriend on twenty-second, but he's never mentioned her or any other potential romantic interest within the confines of our office. (And I'd rather die than bring the subject up.) Once, in a shambolic attempt to make conversation, Snow asked _me_ if I had a girlfriend, and...well, I could have handled it better. (I may have accidentally spat on him out of shock. He then proceeded to get twice the amount of saliva on _me_ as he spluttered his way out of the room.)

 _Say no one_ , I think. _Say you're bringing no one. You're coming to the party alone. I can back you up against the terrace railing without feeling guilty._ (I'll feel terrified, but not guilty.)

“Penny,” he says, stomping past me to kick another plastic bag through the lift doors. If we make it upstairs with a third of the merchandise intact, I'll be impressed. “Her mum's bringing her dad, so she wanted to come too.”

There's nothing in his tone to suggest there's anything romantic about the arrangement, and yet...

 _...ah, there it is, Basil._ The ugly, green face of jealousy.

No matter. We know what to do about jealousy. (Ignore, deny, forget.)

"Penelope Bunce works here. She can't be your plus-one."

"Why not?"

"For goodness’ sake, Snow—she _works_ here. You see her every blasted day; you _live_ together. She's invited by default. She helped us plan the bloody party, did she not? Besides, she's likely to invite her own plus-one, and then what would that make you—a third wheel?"

He frowns, as though undertaking some sort of complex mental calculation. "Why would anyone need three wheels? There are tricycles, I suppose, but..."

I sigh. "Don't overthink it."

He shrugs. “Alright, then—I’m not bringing anyone. How about you? Got someone in mind?”

I squeeze into the lift and select the top floor. As the doors slide together I risk a look at him. His cheeks are pink, a line of sweat visible above the collar of his polo shirt. (It has a _button._ Have I ever seen him wear anything with buttons? Apart from the one on his trousers.)

“No one.” It's the truth. It's _always_ the truth. There's no one—I've made it that way.

It's easier.

How could I expect my life to go differently? The only person I've a hope of getting to know is one I threaten to macerate through a fax machine on a biweekly basis.

Snow doesn't say anything.

We fly past the floors between here and there, looking at our feet.

**SIMON**

I've never been so ready for lunchtime before.

I mean, I'm always a _bit_ hungry. There's never a day in the office where I think, _actually it’s alright, no lunch for me today_. Most days I plan my life around it. On Sunday afternoons I cook for the week—Penny says it's called meal prepping, and she keeps bugging me to go on Instagram and upload photos. Agatha from twenty-second's always on there, posting fancy bowls of porridge, but who's got time for that? That's valuable cooking and eating time.

Some of the lads on the forty-fifth floor have this club where they take it in turns to pick a restaurant, and they buy each other lunch. It sounds fun, but...expensive. Plus I'd probably have to _talk_ to them at some point (in between mouthfuls), and I don't know if it's worth it. I'm not great with people—look at how I've messed things up with Baz.

I wonder if Baz is part of a lunch club, and that’s why he never eats in the office?

I wonder if he thinks I'm only useless around him.

If only he knew.

At least I've got Penny...she puts up with my shit. She says it's alright if I don't want to go out with people from work—I can just meal prep and eat in my office, instead. She thinks I should bring extra for Baz one day, but he'd only throw it in my face. (Literally.) (In all fairness, I never told her about the yoghurt-flinging incident. She'd only talk me into some sort of half-hearted revenge.)

Baz used to hate it when I ate in the office. He said I make too much mess and the sound of me chewing is like Norwegian death metal music played backwards. (He never eats a proper lunch. Sometimes he brings an apple to work—he slices it into pieces and lines them up on his desk. I watched him for hours once, and he didn’t eat any of it. It turned brown and dry, and he threw it in the bin.)

He doesn't get on at me about my lunch habits anymore. Maybe I'm wearing him down slowly? Penny _did_ compare me to coastal erosion, once.

Now that I think about it, even the stationery-based death threats are down to one or two a day. He still looks at me funny all the time, though...maybe he's gone a bit soft?

One o' clock hits and I'm reaching under my desk for my bag, pulling out falafel and pitta bread. I petitioned Baz for an office mini fridge when I first moved in but he refused, saying it would only encourage me to be a pig. My wrap's room temperature, which is fine, but I wish my can of pop was chilled. (He said no to an ice machine, too.)

I look over. The sun's not too crazy today so I can see him properly, instead of the usual creepy silhouette. He's watching me eat, and I can't tell if he's disgusted or interested.

“Want some?”

Half a falafel rolls out of my mouth onto the carpet. His lip curls. (Disgust it is, then.)

“No. Thank you.”

He's hesitant. What's this about? I scowl at him until he twitches.

“Snow. How about...if you, well...”

And I don't think I've ever seen him like this, struggling for words. It's generally impossible to shut him up. (Baz's true love is the sound of his own voice.) (And PowerPoint presentations.)

He huffs and pulls his briefcase out from under his desk. “Don't stuff your face to the point of bursting, Snow. I want you to try something.”

“Oh?”

I put down the remains of my wrap. (Carefully. I'm not done with you yet, gorgeous.) Baz walks over to me, and—wait, is he _nervous?_ —holds something out in his hands. It's...it's...

“What's this?”

“It's a box.”

“Yeah, but what's in it?”

He lifts the lid and holds up something small and round, folded in crinkly paper. “I thought about what you said yesterday, about party food and homemade things, and...I dug up an old family recipe and made this last night. These. They're...well. Try one.”

He holds it out to me. I stand up and peer down at a...

“Truffle? You made chocolate truffles?”

_For the party. He made chocolate truffles for our party._

“Rum,” he says in a strangled voice. (Apparently this is _killing_ him.) "My mother's recipe."

"I didn't know Daphne baked."

"She doesn't, Snow. I’m not talking about Daphne. And this isn't baking, you uncultured swine."

"Oh. Sorry."

Baz never talks about his mum. He's never even mentioned her in front of me. (So that’s why he has two surnames, then? His mum was called Pitch?) I found out that Daphne's his stepmum when Penny told me, on the day of the merger. (She said it's something I should never bring up, even if we're arguing.) (I never have.)

I shove the whole thing into my mouth. It tastes _good_. Chocolate, a hint of sea salt, something sweet that might be agave, and...

“Fuck _me_ , how much rum did you put in them?”

**BAZ**

"A...lot? The measurements weren’t exact. I'm afraid they're not very good."

I confess I had no idea what I was doing when I decided to give the chocolatier life a whirl. (Also, I'm not sure it's good for me, standing here and watching Snow wrap his mouth around something spherical.) I prepared the truffles partly because of my undying need to outdo him, but also there’s a shameless, keening desire for his attention...my kitchen was a bombsite until well past midnight, but one can't expect to be an expert in _all_ things, straight off the bat.

"No, they're great, just...we'll have to keep them on the table with the spirits. Couple of these and we'll be off our faces."

I bite into one and realise exactly what he means. He bursts into laughter as my face scrunches up. I choke the damned thing down, gagging on chocolate vermicelli.

 _"Christ,_ you're right. I don’t drink, so I had no clue what I was doing when I opened the bottle. Are there any children in attendance tonight? We'll have to keep them in a bloody locked box." I hesitate. "The truffles, not the children."

I don't know if it's the downright puerile volume of alcohol my chocolates are saturated in, or the general hysteria of the day, but we're both in tears, doubled over in the middle of the office.

 _Plan a party,_ Daphne said. _It'll keep you out of mischief._

But I don't think it will.

We both eat a second, and the rum's going straight to my head. (I am what would confidently be categorised as _a pitiful lightweight_.) Between sobs, Snow manages to choke out, "One more of these and you'll be over the driving limit."

He's not wrong. At this rate he'll have to haul me into the back of one of the taxis that'll be lined up outside the building, come midnight. _Basilton Pitch, drunk on confectionery._

"Two more trips, I reckon." He takes one last truffle and snaps the lid shut on the box. His thumb grazes my wrist and for a second, I'm drunk on something else. "Two more trips and we'll have everything upstairs. Then we can start hanging the streamers and fairy lights."

Yes, Snow got his blasted paper streamers and lights. _And_ his conical party hats, _and_ his needlessly oversized donkey game. (Before pillaging Waitrose, Simon demanded I take him to Argos. They had all sorts of nonsense decorations— _cheap and cheerful_ he said over and over again, like it was a good thing.) (Snow pillaged their catalogues like a vengeful Viking lord.) He got everything he asked for and more, because I'm weak...also, I begrudgingly admit that he plans a better party than I do.

He retrieves the remains of lunch from his desk. Another chunk of falafel rolls sadly onto the carpet between us, and the usual me would tut and demand he pick it up immediately.

But today, the usual me is out of office.

**SIMON**

Baz’s truffles are amazing. A-plus plus rum.

The food's all set up. A-plus plus spread.

The streamers look brilliant. A-plus plus decorations.

The fairy lights look good, too. Baz is standing under them fixing a wonky bulb, and the reflections are all caught up in his hair. (It’s dead pretty.) (I know I shouldn’t be staring at him—it’ll only get me a black eye—but I can’t help it.)

Between us we manage to set up three folding tables and cover them with sparkly plastic sheets we bought from Argos. (This is a low budget event and I'm loving it.) The alcohol's on the other side of the stage, which isn’t really a stage...just a rectangle of floor left empty for the band. Premal’s supposed to be showing up with his moustachioed caterpillars at six, and hopefully they do, because Baz wouldn't let me rent a karaoke machine as a back-up. (He used the word _veto_ , which I had to google, and yeah, apparently I can’t do much about it. It’s like an upper-class reverse bagsy.)

Baz checks his watch and announces it's nearly three o' clock—two hours until the rabble goes home, and only three hours until the band gets here. Penny's volunteered to harass them until they're set up. I haven't figured out where the plug sockets are on the terrace, but they've got to be around here somewhere. Baz draped fairy lights over the overhanging roof thing—he called it a veranda but I'm not convinced that's a real word—so there must be sockets _somewhere_. (I’d ask him but I’ve been walking around with a plug in my hand for so long, it’s embarrassing.)

“Who's in charge of the guest list?”

“Bunce said she'd do it.”

“When did you and Penny talk?”

“She replies to my emails, Snow.”

Fuck’s sake. It always comes back to the inbox with him. “Baz, where's the stand for the microphone?”

“Over here.”

“Cheers.”

“Do you suppose we have enough plastic cups?”

“Yeah, I think so. Got the multipack, didn’t we? Can always nick a few glasses from the kitchen, otherwise.”

“Right you are.”

“What time's your cousin getting here with the catering?”

“Four.”

One hour. “Sorted.” I can't wait for this Dev character to show up. Apparently there's going to be chicken wings and pizza and coleslaw. I told Baz they had to bring little sausages on sticks because I couldn't find any in his posh supermarket, and he rolled his eyes. (But he also said he’d do his best, so. Baz’s best is usually pretty good.) I’m concerned that the fish finger sandwiches aren’t going to be assembled properly, so I want to be around to supervise.

All in all, things are going well. I’m not sure what I’m thinking, but I reach out and pick up one of the bottles that’s sitting on the drinks table—the world’s weakest wine spritzer, 0.25% alcohol. (Not even a cork—it's got one of those flimsy screw tops, which gives you an idea of how cheap it was.) (Budget party! A-plus plus!) I wave the bottle at Baz until he stops looking judgmental and starts looking like he might be having fun.

“We earned this. We planned a party in twenty-four hours!”

“I don’t drink, Snow.”

“Look at the label. This _barely_ qualifies as alcohol. You’d get drunker off actual grapes, still on the vine.” His eyebrow twitches, which I interpret as a no, so I unscrew the lid and neck a mouthful straight from the bottle. Baz looks at me like I’ve committed murder, right here on what will eventually be the dance floor. (Providing people actually get up and dance. I made sure Penny put that _Macarena_ song on her emergency playlist, just in case.) “You’d get drunker off your bloody truffles, Pitch. Still, if you insist...” I pick up a carton of orange juice.

“What exactly are we celebrating?” He throws a couple of plastic cups at me and sneers. “Anyone would think we'd won a war.”

“We planned a wicked last-minute party. Stop being a prat and revel in this victory with me.”

He’s still sneering, but he takes the cup of juice and stands around looking pretty with it, which at least is better than him throwing it in my face.

And I don't say anything, but somehow, it kind of feels like we're getting there. Towards a victory, I mean.

I can’t _wait_ to tell Penny we’re getting along.

**BAZ**

When Dev arrives with two men from his catering company, I'm straying perilously close to forlorn idiot territory—I've spent the last five minutes fixated on the spectacle of Snow licking barbecue sauce off his fingers. Thankfully, I've stressed my cousin out with enough last-minute demands that he doesn't appear to notice my complete absence of dignity—I leave a wobbly, high-spirited Snow to terrorise him into grilling fish fingers whilst I drift about the terrace, running my fingers through streamers and lights, admiring the organised mess we've made. (I hear Snow unleash his battle cry of ONE HUNDRED PERCENT COD as he backs Dev into a corner, from which there’s surely no escape.)

I can see it, how this will all look in moonlight—music, canned flashes from a cheap strobe we found in an Argos catalogue, strands of silver shining like starlight...and somewhere in the midst of it all: blue, bronze, infuriatingly tempting freckles.

Damn him.

Damn _all_ of him.

I'm leaning over the metal railing, looking out over London and the glittering Thames (which up close is more of a muddy nightmare, but I digress), when Snow takes me by the elbow. I almost jump out of my skin and over the edge, into oblivion.

“Baz, I need a shower. Sweaty. All those boxes and bags.”

I blink, confused. “Very good. May I ask why you felt the need to share this with me?”

He splutters, taking me back to the recent Tuesday morning we spent locked in a conference room with Mitali Bunce and her squad, Simon mumbling and blustering his way through a presentation. To this day, I still don't know what it was about. (I assume it was _somewhat_ connected to the workplace, but with Snow, one can never be sure.)

“Can you let me into the bathroom on the executive floor? Penny says they have a shower.” He hesitates, trying to decide what he makes of that. “Posh gits.”

I roll my eyes and look out over the river again. “Use your keycard—you _do_ know you have access to all things executive, don't you? I'm sick of telling you.”

“But I don't know where the bathroom _is_.”

“There's only one on the entire floor. It says SHOWER on the door, in easy-to-read capitals.”

“I'll get lost.”

“Snow, the floor consists of five locked offices, toilets, and a single door marked SHOWER. How can you possibly get lost?”

“Don't forget the lifts, the kitchen, the stairs up here...this place is a _maze_ , Baz. What do they need sixty-two floors for? If you ask me, they—”

“Don’t start that. This is no time for architectural conspiracy theories.” It's my turn to shrug. And sigh. And lament. And cry later, perhaps, when I'm alone in bed and all of this is done. “Come on, then. I suppose it would be more efficient to show you than to stand here trying to pummel common sense into you.”

He still hasn't let go of my elbow.

It must be the residual rum, making me believe I don't mind.

**SIMON**

The executive bathroom is proper fancy. There's tiny soap and little bottles of shampoo like you see in hotels, and I'm using a bit of everything, just because I can. I know Baz says I'm allowed up here because I'm Mitali's clerk, but I still feel out of place...like an executive burglar who crawled in through the window.

Baz is waiting outside. I told him not to go back upstairs without me in case I get lost. (It has been known to happen.) He keeps banging on the door every few minutes, shouting about hot water quotas. His alcoholic truffles are wearing off, and I'm starting to feel nervous again. I brought some nice-ish clothes with me—they're a bit creased from being in my bag all day, but Penny says the wrinkles will drop out when I'm dancing. I get dressed and wait for the steam to fade from the mirror so I can do something I don't really like to do. (Look at myself.)

Not too bad, I suppose...all things considered. My hair will dry a bit springy, but that's nothing new. I've got a shirt with buttons and my best pair of jeans. (And I wore my job interview shoes today, instead of trainers.) I don't know if it's smart enough, but as this is technically half _my_ party, I don't see how I can be denied entry. Hopefully everyone will be too drunk to pay me any attention.

I open the door and watch the steam hit Baz's face. He steps back, sneering, and I wait for a hundred insults to rain down on me. (They don't. He looks me up and down slowly.)

“What?” I growl.

“Nothing.” He notices my shoes. “Feet. Buttons. Laces. Very...you look very smart, Snow.”

“Oh. Cheers.”

Well. Alright, then.

Baz shoves his hands in his pockets and looks along the empty corridor. (I can’t believe he actually waited for me.) We've been in this neck of the woods for most of the day, but I still haven't seen a single board member. Do they do _any_ work? Is the sixty-second floor a theoretical office space, and not an actual place to be worked in? I'm about to make a snarky remark to Baz, but he’s already got his mouth open.

“I leave everything in your capable hands, Snow. Traffic willing, I'll be back shortly after the band's arrival—I trust that between you and Bunce, you can get everything set up? If my cousin gives you any trouble, call him a reprobate and tell him to anticipate one of my longer emails.”

What the bloody hell is he talking about?

Is he... _is he making a run for it?_

“Baz—what? You can't leave! There's only two hours to go!”

“Two and a half, Snow. There would have been three, but you spent an age in the shower. I'm going home to freshen up and change—I'll be back in time for the party.”

I stare at him like he's speaking gibberish. He can't abandon me _now_ , right before the final battle! We haven't unboxed the party poppers, yet. We haven't checked to see if the twinkly setting on the fairy lights work, or the sound system, or— _he can't go._

“You look fine!” I shout, gesturing at his general person. “You're already wearing a suit. You _always_ wear nice suits. What do you need to go home and change into another nice suit for?”

His eyebrows crawl off his face and would probably attempt to murder me, if they could. “I'm sweaty and verging on putrid, Snow. It won't take an hour. What are you so distressed about?” He seems ready to say something else, then shuts his mouth.

“Nothing! Just...you look good as it is. Your shirt...matches your skin tone, don’t it? And those trousers...whatever, look, have a shower here if you're that worried about it.”

“You've just used all of the hot water in London.”

“Don't be a prat. You can put this same suit back on, and I'll pick out a nice party hat. You’ll look great.”

I jut out my chin (I know he hates when I do that, so I do it all the time) and wait for an argument. Baz's eyes drift over my face and shoulders, settling on my shoes again. His shoulders slump and I reckon, for once, I've won. (It's a weird feeling, I won’t lie.) (But not a _bad_ feeling.)

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, Snow— _fine_.”

“Well, fuck. Good. Want me to wait for you?”

He grimaces and pushes me out of the way.

“Absolutely not. Get back upstairs and see to it that Dev hasn't bollocksed up the chocolate fountain, will you? Grimms are good with money, but little else.”

I nod and wait for him to lock himself inside before banging on the door. He shouts above the hiss of the shower.

“What now, you nightmare?”

“I used all of the cedar shampoo. There's some marshmallow-scented stuff by the sink.”

“Fuck off, Snow.”

I do fuck off.

I opened the shampoo to see what it smelled like, and I reckon Baz is going to hate it.

But, well…

... _I’ve_ always liked marshmallows.

**BAZ**

When I return to the roof terrace, Bunce is standing in the centre of the concrete, hands on hips, ordering a group of young men around like the megalomaniac I fear she’ll one day become. She's short, her hair piled up in a terrifying display of mastery over a scrunchie, spectacles threatening at any moment to tumble from the end of her nose.

Penelope Bunce is a fierce party planner, I don't mind saying it.

Also, I realise as she marches over to me, pausing to tug at her knee-high socks, absolutely _terrifying_ when faced with an impending deadline.

“Pitch! What are you doing, standing around with empty hands? Move that amp over to the balcony and plug it in. _Now._ ”

She waves her finger in my face, and it's as if I'm back at school, being admonished for my outstanding brilliance in front of the class. I feel a burn of irritation rise inside me, and look around for my usual outlet: _where is Simon Scapegoat Snow?_ I find him over by the drum kit, seemingly locked in an unwinnable battle with a cymbal stand.

“Your plus-one has mistaken me for one of the help, Snow. See to it.”

Snow drops the stand, allowing cymbals to crash-land on some poor unsuspecting sod's toes, and dashes over to me. I don't know if he's still feeling the affects of my murderous truffles, or if he's riding high on panic-driven adrenaline...whatever the cause, he violates rule number two— _Do not touch me_ —for the third time in as many hours by gripping my wrist and dragging me over to Bunce. She’s still squared in the middle of the terrace, doling out orders like the ship captain I suspect she may have been in a past life.

“Pen. Pen. Penny. Penelope. Penny. Pen. _Penny_.”

Lord above. I can only imagine what living with them must be like.

Eventually, Bunce stops shouting long enough to notice us. She gives Simon the once-over—“You bought a shirt with buttons, Simon! It looks great!”—and then takes three offensive steps back to take me in. (She actually pulls her glasses off her nose and looks at me in such an unnerving caricature of her mother that I almost collapse.)

“Penny, Baz came back. Told you he would.”

“I can see that. Are you two going to be helpful? Has that amp grown legs and walked itself to where it needs to be, Basil?”

“We’ll be dead helpful,” Simon grins. “What’s an amp? What do you need?”

I'm not sure _when_ we ceded overall control of the party to Bunce, but Snow practically flattens himself on the floor in worship of her natural authority.

“Never mind, Trixie’s got it. Where's the guest list?” she snips, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Did you decide on a new plus-one, Simon?”

He looks at me first, then his feet, shoving his hands so far in his pockets I'm surprised they don't pop the stitching. “Nah, look—Pen—the guest list's on a clipboard.”

She purses her lips. “And where is this fabled clipboard?”

He rubs the back of his neck and looks around desperately. “There's a man. Somewhere. A clipboard man. One of the interns, I don’t know.”

I roll my eyes. (In a sympathetic way.)

Bunce wipes her glasses and tucks them into her hair, turning on me. “Simon, what level of foolish do you have to be to leave the guest list in the hands of an unknown intern? They’ve probably already turned it into a paper plane and tossed it off the terrace. _Honestly._ And Basilton, why do you smell like marshmallows?”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Don't take your agitation out on me, Bunce.” She sneers, and I can't help but admire it. She's practically _forcing_ the gratitude from me. “I appreciate your brother agreeing to this corporate burden upon such short notice.”

“He didn't have much of a choice, but you're welcome. That reminds me.” Bunce turns to scream over her shoulder at a taller, ganglier version of herself. “Premal, get the guitars tuned!” She peers at us closely. “Simon, Baz—I'm about to commandeer this party. Any objections?”

Simon shrugs. “Fine by me.” He looks at me to confirm.

I smirk. “Fine by _us._ ”

**PENELOPE**

Baz Pitch.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, smelling like marshmallow, allowing Simon to cling to him like a mollusc clothed in Primark’s finest.

I've been to his house. Does he know that? I suppose it's more the family home, seeing as he’s got his own penthouse. Mum was invited there last year, to his parents’ mansion in Hampshire, in order to discuss the merger. I went along out of morbid curiosity, and I've never seen anything like it. The Grimms live as though the 1800s never ended—as though they're trapped in a Victorian museum exhibit, peering out anxiously as modern life goes on around them.

I wasn't sure what to make of Malcolm Grimm, the CEO's husband. He's got a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, but he was polite enough. And one of his sisters, bless her, tried to drag me around the whole house, pointing out all the old things she liked but didn't quite understand. (There was a worrying number of gargoyles.)

Simon complains so much about Baz that the picture in my head doesn't compute with what I'm seeing tonight. Them getting on, _collaborating_ , not sticking drawing pins into each other's arms. But I suppose if I really think about it, it's been painfully obvious why Simon has been so obsessed since the merger. (When I say obsessed, I mean _up-to-and-beyond-the-brink-of-death_ preoccupied.) (I had to give him a quota. When he talks about Baz too much, I play the Windows shutdown sound on my phone and walk away.)

Not that Simon himself monitors how much he talks about Baz. He's utterly clueless in almost every aspect. He can plan a good emergency party, though—I'll give him that.

When I turn around again, Simon and Baz have gone over to the terrace doors to confront a nervous-looking intern holding a clipboard. (The poor boy’s eyeing Simon unhappily, backing away and tugging at his hair.) (They look alike, actually. Curls, wonky tie, moles, the works.) There's still a band to harass and a chocolate fountain to set up, so I'd best leave them to it.

This party's not going to run itself, is it?


	4. Baz Pitch’s (negotiable) apology for future office harmony

**SIMON**

The party gets underway on time, and you know what—it ain't half bad. Penny says she wants to dance until her legs fall off, so we do. I spin her around and her skirt flicks up above her knees. I know she must get bored living with me, because I never want to go out and neither of us ever have people over, so I'm glad she's having fun tonight. She's on her third glass of wine and I'm still holding my first, looking over at the railing to see if Baz is still there. (He is.) (I'm worried now that the planning part's done, he'll disappear.)

I wish he'd come and dance. Baz dancing is a weird thought—would he even know how? The only time I've really seen him move his arms is when he throws something at me. I tried to get him to come and stand with me and Penny at the buffet earlier, but he said something about feeling sweaty. (I've been sticking to him like glue all day and I don't think he smells bad. I like his marshmallow shampoo.)

Penny's still twirling and so am I. I can see her mum and dad dancing nearby—they're waltzing to The Killers, which is pretty fucking hardcore—and yeah, I don't know. I think this is a good night.

“Do you like the music?” Penny asks as I spin her far too quickly, and we nearly spill over into a group of accountants.

“Yeah! The band's ace!” I grin and spin her again, just because. “And look!”

Behind her, a group of lads from eleventh (which I _think_ is archiving, but who really knows) set off a box of party poppers between them, and paper confetti gets everywhere. It's in our drinks, in our hair, tangled between our shoes—proper chaos on a low-budget level. I love it.

“Simon, you did _not!”_ Penny giggles, sloshing wine down her top.

“Course I did.” I reach over to one of the tables and snap a party hat on her head. (The elastic pings off her chin—she laughs and pings mine right back. “Wouldn't be a proper work do without all this, right?”

She grins, refilling her glass. “Good music, party poppers, dancing...all that's missing is your baking, Simon! I thought you spent all night fighting the oven for a tray of custard creams?”

I wave my hands, forgetting all about my wine and splashing more over Penny. She tuts and tries to blot it up with a napkin. “Shit, I left them in the office. Baz's truffles, too.”

“Baz's—” her face scrunches up. (That means she's trying to make sense of something strange I've said.) “Basilton Pitch made _truffles?”_

“Yeah. Chocolate and rum. They're fucking _lethal._ Be right back!”

I dance my way over to the railing before she can reply, shimmying shoulders and bumping elbows with people who normally never look twice at me. (I'm not naturally equipped with rhythm, but I'm giving it a go.)

“Baz,” I say, leaning into him so I can catch my breath. “I think we threw a bloody good party.”

He's got his back to the city, breeze ruffling his hair. (It looks nice.) His shirt sleeves are rolled up, which usually means he's about to give me a bollocking, but right now he looks pretty relaxed. In one hand he’s got a plastic cup of cola—I know there’s no alcohol in it, because I watched him lecture the caterer as they poured for him. “Present tense, Snow. We are _throwing_ a good party.”

I don't think now's really the time for grammar, but alright. “Throwing, then. Are you having a good time?” I ask because I haven't seen him have a good time before, so there's not really anything to compare this to. As far as I know, his only two moods are _pissed off_ and _really pissed off_. (And disgusted, I suppose.) It's been weird, this past day or so, seeing another side of him.

“I'm glad it's going well.”

I watch him settle back on his elbows. His tie's wonky and his top button's open. (For Baz, this is practically scandalous.) I get a whiff of his cologne as the wind blows back my way. He smells spicy and sweet.

“Penny wants to try my custard creams. Want to come and dance for a bit, then we can go downstairs and get them?”

He looks at me and smirks. “Too scared to go on your own, Snow?”

“No,” I snort. “But you left your truffles in there, and you might not want me rummaging around on my own. Maybe I'll find a way into your locked drawer?”

He looks unsure, running his fingers through his hair. (I'm so glad he didn't tie it back.) “Very well, then. Are you sure your flatmate can bear to part from you for so long?”

Penny's joined her parents in a weird three-person waltz that ends up with all of them in a pile on the floor, laughing their heads off. Premal's band kicks up a gear and starts playing a pop song, and the whole terrace is bouncing, holding drinks and chicken wings and crushed party hats over their heads.

“She'll be fine.”

“Come on, then. We'll take the stairs and avoid the queue for the lift.”

“Hang on, don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.” I risk certain death by grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the buffet. “Dancing first, remember?”

“I...I don’t _dance_ ,” he splutters, sounding strangled. I glance back to grin at him, and can see that he’s gone red around the ears. (The jammy bastard _still_ manages to look fit, even when he’s embarrassed.) “Unhand me, Snow.”

“Nope,” I reply, pushing through a gaggle of financial advisors and getting my hands on the good stuff.

“If you eat _that_ before you dance, you’ll get indigestion.”

“Thanks, dad,” I fire back, immediately regretting it. (Fuck, now I’m red, too.) “I mean—just try it, alright? We went through a lot for this. Enjoy it.”

Baz squints at me in utter misery, taking the lukewarm fish finger sandwich from my outstretched hand. (Cheap white bread, tomato sauce, greasy cod. Bloody good stuff.) It’d be better if we were at my place, because I could make him a piping hot one from scratch—I grill my fish fingers, whereas they must’ve whacked these soggy things in a microwave, because the breadcrumbs are soft instead of crispy.

Yeah, my flat would be better...we could sit down in the living room and I’d get to watch his face as he bit into it, and there wouldn’t be all this music and mess and distraction. I’d boil some tea to wash it down, and maybe he’d kick his shoes off and fold his stupidly long legs up on the settee, and—

One of the caterers offers me a beer. I shake my head. If I’m having vivid fish finger fantasies I’ve had enough to drink, right?

He’s looking at the sandwich like it’s going to grow teeth and bite his nose off. I put my hand around his and mash it into his mouth. He looks appalled for a minute—let’s be honest, probably overwhelmed by how good it tastes—then leans into it, licking red sauce off his fingers.

What’s he thinking? I hope he likes it.

My own fingers brush his lip. (He doesn’t eat them.)

**BAZ**

This is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.

It’s wet, dry and miserable, and there’s absolutely no way these sorry concoctions are _100% cod_ , as the box proclaimed.

But...Snow is here. ( _Simon_.) We’re not fighting. He’s feeding me a sandwich. His fingers drag along my lip, and now _he’s_ covered in tomato sauce. He licks his hand and, as with the sorry barbecue sauce debacle of earlier, I can’t look away.

My breath smells of questionable fish so I neck the rest of my flat cola, placing the cup on the buffet table with a shaking hand. I glance over at the terrace doors, planning our escape downstairs, but Snow’s hands find my hips as he backs me into the crowd.

“What now, you nightmare?”

“Now we dance,” he says, meeting my eye.

And I wonder if he’s noticed me dancing around him for months, now.

**SIMON**

Of course Baz is a fucking good dancer.

Seriously, is there anything he’s bad at? Apart from sharing stationery. And he’s not that great at clear and succinct emails, but to be honest, who in this company _is?_ They’re all a bunch of Dickens’s (Dickenses? Dickeni?) in the making, banging on about nothing. The geniuses that are CATERPILLAR MOUSTACHE play a song I don’t know, but that’s not going to stop me. Maybe if Mitali set the monthly meetings to music, like an epic corporate soundtrack, I’d pay more attention. (I know if Baz moved like _that_ in meetings, I’d be _right_ at attention.) (How fucking inconvenient would that be, while corporate’s harping on about turnover?)

Penny slips, taking down a curly-haired bloke dancing nearby. (Wait, is that Oliver?) (Who’s he with? Tall, dark hair, crooked nose. Pretty fit, actually. Doesn’t he work in the basement?) Her parents laugh as they collapse in a tangle again, and looking around, everyone’s having a good time. Party poppers, streamers, fairy lights. (Baz is dancing under them and he looks pretty fit, too.)

The only thing that could make this better would be custard creams.

And maybe a couple of Baz’s truffles.

And maybe…

Maybe if it could just be the two of us, for a bit.

Me and Baz, party for two.

**BAZ**

Dancing at a work disco with the person you want most is like flirting with disaster.

He’s constantly drawing you in. And you’re constantly swaying too close.

And you know it’s not a good move—there _are_ no good moves, only atrocious early-2000s hand-waving you saw on _Top of the Pops_ as a child—and there’s absolutely nothing good that can come of it.

But you dance anyway. And then…

Well. Then you fall over, and take him down with you.

**SIMON**

I’ve got my face between Baz Pitch’s knees, nose an inch from the sticky terrace floor. I put my hands on what I hope are his shoulders and pull myself up. My hand slips, then _I_ slip and then we’re in a muddle again, my fingers accidentally ripping a button from his shirt.

I can feel his heartbeat. (It's fast.)

He can probably feel mine. (It's faster.)

Then I'm looking at him, thinking about truces.

“Snow,” he says, and I can hardly hear him over the music. “Have we made enough of a spectacle of ourselves for one night?”

I look up and see what he means. Most people are still dancing and bouncing around, but a few of the lads from downstairs are staring at us, and Penny’s standing with her arms crossed, shaking her head. I grab Baz’s hands and pull him up. (And alright, maybe I hold on for a moment longer than I need to.)

“Let’s go get the custard creams, yeah?”

He bites his lip and tries to flatten his hair. “After you.”

I step back, brave enough to reach out and brush a bit of confetti off his shirt, and lead him across the terrace to the stairwell. There are two accountants blocking the door, giggling and rummaging in their handbags. People aren't leaving yet, but you're not allowed to smoke on the terrace, so they have to go downstairs to light up outside the front doors. (Probably not doing our corporate image any good, but oh well. Better than tossing cigarette ends off the roof, right?) Baz holds the door open for me, and I press up against him for a moment as two laughing secretaries from the ground floor duck under his arm, cheering as they rediscover the party.

They’re gone, and again, I’m touching him for longer than I need to.

Then I flash him a grin and skip down the stairs ahead of him.

**PENELOPE**

When I'm dead from dancing, propped up against the buffet with mum, who’s equally shattered—everyone's cheering because they've finally realised what a legend their co-chief executive is—I look around for Simon. I can’t see his curls anywhere. Baz hasn’t gone back to lurking by the railing—it was so nice to see him _move_ and have fun—so I wonder...does this mean they've gone off somewhere _together?_

Maybe there's an emergency planning meeting. (I imagine there's been a few of those in the past twenty-four hours.) I pretend I'm not offended by the lack of an invitation.

I pull out my phone and text Simon.

_Stay focused on the biscuits._ _  
__The biscuits are what you're there for._ _  
__Not the marshmallows._

He sends back his usual sloppy blend of lowercase and clumsy typos.

_what you onabout?_ _  
__Wwe didnt buy any mashmellso._ _  
__see ya in a min._

Good grief. He really _is_ clueless.

**BAZ**

Simon and I unlock the office door and stand inside, listening to each other breathe. We've been alone in this room plenty of times before, but it feels clandestine somehow. As though we absolutely shouldn't be in here this late. (After dark.)

Above our heads, we hear raucous laughter and the hum of music. I make a beeline for the box of truffles, still perched on the edge of my desk. Snow inexplicably decides that now's the time to kick his shoes off and go skidding across the carpet, arms above his head, thanking an imaginary crowd of admirers.

“Had enough to drink, Snow?”

He waves a hand at me, stealing a truffle. “Hardly anything. I'm just happy.”

_Happy._

I'm worried that what I'm about to say will ruin the momentum, but it has to be done.

“Whilst I have you alone, I want to apologise.”

He pauses, chocolate strands disappearing between his lips. (Between us we're halfway through the box. There's little to no point in taking them upstairs.) (Also...I don't want to share.)

“Apologise? For what? You haven't been that bad today. Not one death threat involving paperclips.” He pulls the wrapper off a truffle and pushes it into my mouth. I'm too shocked to do anything but accept—his thumb brushes my lip, then my teeth.

He _does_ still want me dead. He's just going about it in a different way.

I swallow. The rum is bitter; the chocolate cloying. My mouth is the driest it's ever been.

There's a list of things in my head I want to apologise to Simon for. He’ll never read the email I sent, so perhaps I can say them aloud.

* * *

**BAZ PITCH'S (negotiable) APOLOGY FOR FUTURE OFFICE HARMONY:**

1\. I’m sorry for being consistently unpleasant, and never being able to help myself.

2\. For being incapable of niceness, even when it's what I mean, at heart, to give you.

3\. For the rule sheet I stapled to the wall above your desk. As you would so eloquently phrase it, it was a “dick move”.

4\. For always being on at you about your emails. Though it pains me to admit, it’s your inbox to do with as you will. I can only offer guidance, like one of those droll “Jedi masters” you seem to divine wisdom from.

5\. For making you feel as though you don't matter here, when to me, you matter very much.

6\. For making fun of your hair, your clothes, your manners, when I want to tell you how much I like all of the above, and that I'd never change any part of you.

7\. For making you feel inferior when I ought to have treated you as an equal.

8\. For never letting you use my ruler, or other stationery items. (But you must respect my prudence in these matters, bearing in mind your track record for snapped pencils.)

* * *

“For being a pain,” I say honestly. “For being horrid to you.” I point at the rules on the wall. For the first two weeks after the merger, I'd read them aloud every day, watching his shoulders hunch as he sulked himself into a tantrum. I did it on purpose; I _wanted_ the fight. (His attention.) “For that. I'll take it down on Monday, I promise. We can...we can try to make this work. If you want to.” (If you want _this_.)

I watch him carefully. Neither of us turned the lights on when we came in, so we're standing in the dark. There are flickers in the window from the strobe light on the roof, watery moonlight and glare from the street below. He doesn't say anything, and it's not beneath me to resort to intense panic when a crisis rears its head.

_Do you want this? How can I make things right?_

_How can we start again?_

“Right now. I'll do it right now.”

I edge past him, placing a knee on his desk and leaning across, ripping at the rule sheet with my hands. It comes away easily enough, but I'll have to pick at the walls with a staple remover on Monday. I ball up the paper and turn to face him, holding it out like an offering.

“No more rules. Can we try again?”

“No more rules,” he says quietly. He takes it and throws it at the waste paper basket. (He misses.) (I resist the urge to walk over and pick it up.) “I've been a bit of a twat too, haven't I? I'm sorry. Maybe we can both do better. I...I do want this, Baz.”

I nod. It's not the rum truffles, making me weak tonight.

It's him.

“There's something else, Snow.” I catch myself. “ _Simon_.”

He practically beams at me. (I hardly notice how dark it is in here, he's so bright.)

“What?”

I walk over to my desk and remove a tiny silver key from around my wrist. I glance up and watch his eyes grow wide as I unlock the drawer in my desk, teasing it open and allowing my gaze to land on what's inside.

It's not hidden. Not really.

It's just private. _Mine_. Something I don't share with anyone.

(I don’t know how.)

I pull it out and turn it in my hands, so he can see.

(He can _see me._ )

“Oh, Baz. Is that...?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “Yes.”

Simon swallows and takes the picture frame out of my hands, holding it up to make an expert comparison. “She's lovely. You look alike.”

I blush and look down, taking my mother's photograph and placing it carefully on the desk, next to my keyboard. “I'd have kept it out in the open, but I always feared she'd be knocked over during one of your tantrums. Marker pen to the face, that sort of thing.”

Snow snorts, rubbing the back of his neck. (His ridiculously showy, attractive neck.) (Fuck, I ought to lay off the truffles.)

“Yeah, that was probably for the best.” He hesitates, chewing on his lip. “Thanks for showing me. And I'm sorry I've been such a dick about it. Figured you were hiding a fancy ruler in there, or something. Or, like, the keys to your Jag.”

It's my turn to snort.

“As if I’d ever let my car keys leave my sight, Snow. And honestly, how fancy can a ruler be?”

Is this what we're going to do for the rest of the night? Stand here, listening to the party go on above us, making things right? (Truthfully, I wouldn't mind.) My heartbeat thrums louder than the drums. I ought to insult him just to break the silence.

But...I don't _want_ to insult him.

He crosses to his tray of custard creams and pulls one apart with his teeth, licking at the filling. It's disgustingly (and worryingly) attractive. I squint intently at the staples sticking out of the wall, the fire extinguisher, Snow's discarded shoes, the wonky blinds. Anywhere, anywhere but at his teeth and what he's doing with them. I notice a light blinking on the photocopier and go over to investigate.

**SIMON**

_No more rules._

My brain's spinning itself dizzy imagining what I can get up to in an office without rules. (What I can get up to with _Baz._ ) I can touch his stuff. I can use his paperclips and not replace them. I can forget to fill up the copier without him going on a twenty-minute rant about _continuous paper supply_ and the art of being considerate. I can put my feet on the desk and interrupt him when he's composing bloated emails, and maybe I can even get my phone out and text sometimes, without him biting my head off…

...it’s a whole new flippin’ world, mate.

Will he let me operate the blinds without supervision?

_Will he let me use his ruler?_

(I’ve always wanted to get my hands on it.)

He's messing with the photocopier, muttering something about toner, and I don't know...I guess all these dark thoughts about Baz's stationery are doing something to me. Or maybe it's the truffles? Or the way he let me in just now, showing me what was in the locked drawer. (His mum.) (Is Baz secretly _thoughtful?_ How have I not noticed that before?)

Or maybe it's the way he put a knee up on my desk, and his trousers stretched over his arse.

It was probably _one_ of these things. I'm just not sure which.

And honestly, does it matter?

_No. More. Rules._

**BAZ**

I'm pressing hopelessly at flashing buttons, trying not to think desperate and disturbing thoughts about my colleague's mouth, when I feel two hands push firmly against my hips. (One of them is clutching a crumbling custard cream.) Snow turns me so I'm facing him, and then he's very much intruding on my personal space, forcing one of his godforsaken biscuits into my mouth. I chew, trying to steady my breathing. There are inches between us, if that, and he returns the biscuit hand to my hip, holding me in place.

_Is this what does it for you, Snow? Pinning people up against office equipment and enticing them to sample your wares?_

I don't have time to consider the situation further. He pushes his chin forward and the rest of his face follows, forcing mine back until I'm bent against the photocopier. (My arse mashes a few buttons, and I'm sure on Monday we're going to have more than mere toner problems.) His tongue's in my mouth, and he drags it under my front teeth, licking off a remnant of vanilla cream.

For a split second, I consider how typical it is of Snow to be obsessed with food to the point he'd _take it out of someone else's mouth_.

But his tongue flicks under my teeth again, and my knees feel like they're caving in, the crush of his hands the only thing keeping me upright. (That and the copier.) (Whatever error it’s suffering, we’re making it worse.)

My brain catches up with the rest of me and I realise we're kissing.

I surrender to it. To _him_.

One of his hands ( _the biscuit hand_ ) snakes up around my face, and I slide one of mine into his hair, the other around his waist. He did a terrible job of tucking in his shirt earlier and I've a mind to fix it, but find myself pulling it out the rest of the way instead. Then my palm is pressed against his bare back and he sighs into my mouth, lips hot and soft against mine. He moves his hips forward and there's no more space between us. The copier makes sounds of appeal which we ignore as the kiss goes on, and on, and on, and on.

“This okay?” he asks at some point.

I manage to babble back something agreeable. He tastes like chocolate, biscuits, rum.

After some time, he pulls back far enough to say, “Your tie's undone. And...sorry about your shirt button.”

I smile, already aching to kiss him again. ( _Soft, weak, pathetic._ ) “It's a party, Snow. One can be informal.”

He pushes his fingers under my chin, and then another button's undone, and the next. I raise my eyebrow, though I don't dare discourage him.

“Informal,” he whispers, and then the pernicious bastard does something ruinous. He slides one of his knees between mine and presses against me, my hip besieging his stomach, the top of his thigh brushing against the unforgivable betrayal of my—

“Baz...is that a stapler in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”

 _“Do not say another word,_ ” I hiss, aware of the burn spreading across my cheeks. I try to look away but he passes his hand through my hair, watching me wilt as he shifts his leg again. “You absolute nightmare. You don't hear me commenting on whatever that thing is in _your_ pocket.”

He actually steps back to check his pockets. (The _idiot._ ) (The lovely, beautiful, terrible little idiot.)

“There's nothing in my pockets.”

I don't even bother raising an eyebrow. What's the point?

“Oh,” he says, realising. And I feel gratified to see an equally violent shade of red cross _his_ face. “You mean my—”

 _“Shut up._ We don't have to _talk_ about it.” I flail back, setting off another round of protests in the poor beleaguered photocopier.

He laughs at me, horrible creature that he is, and leans in. I'm thinking about keeping him here for the rest of the night, lips hot against mine, because he tastes of vanilla and sugar and trouble, and kissing him is _far_ better than throwing things at him. But then somebody knocks on the door and Simon lets go—I slump against the photocopier, painfully aware that the door _isn't_ locked. If the person in the corridor should realise that, they'll find us here in a very much compromised position, with the copier printing reams of blank pages, my shirt undone, and—

“Simon? Are you in there?”

My stomach drops. _Bunce._

“Simon? You've been gone for a while. Is everything alright? No spontaneous clipboard beatings?”

He opens his mouth and I grab at him, pulling him hard against my chest, hand clamped over his face. There's no way out of this situation that isn’t disastrous, unless Bunce is too polite to try the door handle. (I doubt it.) I feel Snow’s breath against my palm—he's looking at me with lidded eyes and this, I know at last, is how he's going to kill me. Not by pushing me out of the window. Not by pulverising me beneath the emotional weight of his long-neglected inbox. Not by suffocating me with complaints and refusals. But by _this_ —his eyes, his mouth, his _hands_ which are now roaming over the photocopier’s protesting buttons and _oh my fucking god he's the worst thing alive_.

Bunce knocks the door again, and Simon drags his fingers along the touchscreen. Slowly, lightly. He's a torture artist. He squeezes my legs and moves to stand between them. We hear Bunce give up and go stomping off along the corridor—a moment is all the reprieve I’m given and then he's back on me, grinning like a wicked thing, twining his fingers into my hair.

“You're a devil, a scourge, an immense fucking regret,” I mutter, letting him take my mouth again. (It's what I've wanted for months now, so I'm hardly going to resist.)

“You like it,” he says back, and no part of me can argue. “You like the lack of rules.” He reaches around me to lift the cover on the copier, sliding his sticky hands across pristine glass. (It sends an obscene shudder down my spine, I admit.) “Baz...there’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

_“Don’t you dare.”_

It’s too late. He’s already pushing me out of the way, turning himself and lifting his hips, pulling himself up onto the photocopier.

 _“Don’t,”_ I gasp uselessly.

“No rules,” he says, a malevolent glint in his eye. “I’m going after the blinds, next.”

“ _No_ —”

He pulls me against him, mouth on mine like a curse. (Like a promise.) “No. Fucking. Rules.” He’s hot. (It’s improbably hot, this whole thing.) He runs his hands over flashing buttons until he finds what he likes, and then—

Well.

We encounter technical difficulties, let’s put it that way.

**PENELOPE**

I know they're in there.

Simon's problem is that he thinks he's being sneaky, when he actually doesn't have a single subtle bone in his body. When he's riled up and ready to go off, you can hear him breathing through his mouth from the bloody M6.

He was definitely worked up about something. I'm just not sure I want to know _why_. (It sounded as though the photocopier was going haywire, and I can't imagine Basil would react kindly to him fiddling with his equipment.)

Rather than see something I would much rather live without—such as a bloodbath, or my flatmate’s backside—I'm going to walk away and return to the party. See what state they're in when they emerge. (As long as they're both alive, I suppose I don't need to be _too_ concerned about what they’re up to.)

I send Simon a quick text asking if he's still breathing, and he texts back right away with _oh yeh_.

Anything beyond that really isn't my business, is it?

**SIMON**

It’s perfect. Everything I’d hoped it would be.

Long days spent daydreaming, wondering what this moment would be like… _fantasising_ about it...

...And now I know. At long last.

It feels _good_.

I sigh, pulling myself up onto my desk—a few remaining biscuits get squashed under my legs, but that’s alright. I hold my hard work up to the silver light coming through the blinds, so I can admire it from all angles.

“Baz,” I gasp. “It’s incredible.”

He leans into me, fastening the buttons on his shirt, his voice a purr in my ear.

“Splendid, Snow. There are no words.”

He’s not wrong.

“Where should I put it? I could slide it under Penny’s door.”

He takes it from me, crossing to his own desk and fiddling with the key around his wrist. “Seems a waste, if you ask me.” He stops again to consider it, admiring the strong curves and lines, before pushing it into the locked drawer. “We’ll decide its fate on Monday. Perhaps I’ll put you up in the corridor for everyone to see. Show you off.”

“No way,” I growl. “That’s hardly fair. Aren’t _you_ going to have a turn?”

He locks the drawer and curls his lip. “Never in a million years could you tempt me to photocopy my own arse, Snow. You are thoroughly alone in your debauched ways.”

I shrug. (Shame, really. Bet he’d do a cracking job. I could stick it on the wall above my desk, where the rules used to be.) ( _Non-negotiable office harmony,_ my arse.) (Or _his_ arse. Whatever.)

I scrape together half a custard cream and saunter over to his side of the room, feeling cocky. “Keep it in the drawer. And no making executive decisions without me, Pitch—we’re on the same level, remember? We’re _equals_.”

He looks down his nose at me and sneers. “Hilarious, Snow.”

I stand on my tiptoes and push against him. (He doesn’t back down, but he _does_ look away—another win for me.) “How’s your schedule looking on Monday? I’m arranging a meeting. With you. One on one. Pencil me in.”

He raises an eyebrow and presses down on my shoulders until my socks find carpet again. “Calling the shots, are we?”

I jut out my chin, watching as he brushes hair out of his eyes. (Is Baz Pitch _nervous_?) “Yeah. Check your emails—I’ll send you an itemary.”

“Itinerary. And what would this meeting be about?”

I try to do that sexy thing you see in films, where one character sweeps an arm across the desk and clears everything off in one go, while the other one swoons. In reality, it’s a bit of a shit-show—Baz’s pencils and pens, which were neatly arranged in order of increasing pointiness, go flying, while his keyboard crashes to the floor, almost dragging the monitor down with it. (He catches it in time.) (He saves his mum’s photo, too. Good reflexes.) I’m blinded by a bit of flying truffle dust, an empty mug goes crashing, and neither of us are left swooning so much as staggering about in the dark, swearing at each other.

At some point I get my hand around his wrist and pull him against me. (The plan is to shut him up with a kiss before he _really_ starts complaining.) (Thus far, my clever strategy of putting my mouth on his mouth is a raging success.)

By the time we get out into the corridor again, there are crumbs in locations I’ve never thought about before, and Baz looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Job well done, I’d say.

**BAZ**

Rule number two has been broken beyond repair. _Do not touch me. At all. Respect the concept of personal space._

The wanton shattering of rules five, seven and eight swiftly followed, and he then obliterated rule ten by asking an _incredibly_ personal question about my underwear.

All in all, Simon Snow shows _no_ respect for rules.

We stand in the light of the hallway, giggling like a pair of irrational IT technicians after a server upgrade, whilst he attempts to re-tie my tie. (He cannot.) I insist on tucking his shirt in for him, because he’s terrible at it. (He keeps untucking mine when I reach around his waist, the querulous bastard.)

I pull my hair back in a loose knot, and I like how he looks at me. (Like he’s hungry.) (Mind you, knowing him, he still _is_ hungry. He keeps asking for my thoughts on fish finger sandwiches.)

There's red in his lips. (I did that.) Biscuit crumbs in his hair. (That one’s on him.)

“Baz,” he says, hands ransacking my pockets. “Got a tenner on you?”

**SIMON**

I keep pulling bits of food out of my hair. The last of the truffles got knocked off Baz’s desk in the confusion, and I accidentally sat on the biscuit tray at some point, so I'm going to have to think up a lie to tell Penny when we return upstairs empty-handed. (Or maybe she’s having so much fun she’s forgotten about us.) I pull my phone out and see she's sent five or six texts, asking if we’re locked in _office relations negotiations_. (Fuck.)

“What do you need money for, Snow?” Baz asks, removing my marauding hands from his trousers.

“Well...we should be getting back upstairs,” I begin, though by the look on his face, Baz isn't too keen on the idea. (I'm not either.) (I'd take him straight back into the office, but he's already locked it, and I know there's a limit to the amount of mess he'll clean up on Monday.) “But I’ve got a better idea.”

He looks at me, waiting for me to speak first. To think, all I needed to do to shut him up was seduce him with biscuits. Back him up against the photocopier, press his buttons a bit...

I would've done it on the very first day, if I'd known.

“...go on?”

“Custard creams, right? That’s what Penny’s expecting. We can get some from the shop. Instead of going back to the party, I mean.”

He smirks, and I watch his tongue run along his bottom lip.

What an arsehole. A bossy, apologetic, brilliant arsehole.

“You want to go to the _supermarket,_ Snow?”

“Yeah. Or the corner shop; it doesn’t _have_ to be a supermarket. We can take a taxi, if you’ve got cash. Then we'll be back in no time.”

He looks along the corridor in the direction of the lifts, then shrugs. (Have I ever seen him shrug before? No fucking rules, indeed.) “We _are_ almost out of those mini sausage rolls you like.”

I grin. “Let's go. I'll text Penny and remind her she’s in charge. She’ll bloody _love_ that.”

We call the lift and wait for it to climb the floors. When the doors ping open a few drunk people from eighth spill out—they clap me on the back and call me an _absolute_ _legend mate, yeah mate, proper banging party yeah_. I tell them to have a good night and they go staggering along the corridor, looking for the door to the terrace.

“Should we tell them they need to go up another floor?” Baz asks, watching them weave and stumble into walls.

“Nah.”

Then I have _another_ bright idea. (Arguably my best one yet.) I grab his sleeve and pull him towards the stairwell. The lift doors slide shut, and it starts to move down—there must be others at the bottom, waiting to come back up after their cigarette break. Before I can think too hard about it, I push open the door and start down the endless stairs.

“Snow…?”

I look at him, lingering in the doorway.

“You coming or what?”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “If I must. Though you do realise there are sixty floors between here and the ground? That the height of our building is not an illusion, but a grave reality of dismal modern architecture?” I swing around the banister and start down the next flight. “Do you really have the energy for this, after all that flailing you called dancing?”

“Fifty-nine floors,” I reply. “And my dancing was inspirational.”

“Fifty-nine floors, then. And I’d err more on the side of _curious._ ”

“Fifty-eight, now. A vision, a joy.”

He groans and increases the pace. Our footsteps are loud, echoing—there’s no one in the stairwell but us. On the fifty-fifth floor, I suffer another bright idea. (Bloody full of them today.) (Must’ve been all that custard and rum.) Baz looks confused, but he soon gets the idea when I back him into the nearest corner.

“Fifty-five floors to go,” I whisper.

“Fifty-four.”

“Fifty-four, then. Fifty-four floors of nothing.”

“Fifty-four kisses?” Baz asks, and I don't answer with words. (He sighs into my mouth and that says it all, really.) “Our legs will _not_ thank us for this.”

I shrug. “Young and fit, aren’t we? Full of beans. Full of bread crusts and fish fingers. We’ll be alright—we can stop and take breaks.”

He’s looking at me like I’m mad, but I can tell he’s fighting off a smile.

I'm going to have to rethink how I feel about all this. The merger, the acquisition. New information has come to light, and it's enough to change my mind on a few key points. (Namely, is my colleague a complete wanker, or is he actually alright once I’ve got him cornered by the copier?)

It’s going to take a weekend of thorough analysis, I’d say. I can report my findings to Baz on Monday when we have our post-party project evaluation meeting. (Is that a thing? I’ll make it a thing.) Maybe if I ask nicely, he’ll block out the entire morning in our calendars. _DO NOT DISTURB: CO-EXECUTIVES AT WORK._

Maybe I'll lock the door and shut the blinds and switch the photocopier off. He’ll have to let me, because there aren’t rules anymore.

_Fifty-two kisses._

We can let our computer screens go idle.

_Forty-four floors._

We can ignore our emails and forward all calls to voicemail.

_Thirty-one corners._

We can thoroughly dissect the merger and come to a few firm conclusions.

_Twenty-eight glances._

I’ll let Baz know that the meeting should be held at ( _on?_ ) my desk.

_Sixteen distractions._

I’ll tell him to bring his stapler.

_The last few flights._

He’s not to record any of it in the minutes.

_One more touch._

We’ll let management know what a great success the party was. Send Baz’s stepmum a lengthy email, let the board members slap each other on the back and sing their own praises. Maybe we’ll get a mention in the corporate newsletter. (Or maybe we’ll give Penny all the credit.)

And Baz and me...we can start again.

Like it’s the first day. Like the merger’s happened all over again. Like we’re on the ground floor, building our way back up.

I push the stairwell door open and let him walk through ahead of me. My legs are like jelly, but I’m nowhere near done with the night.

“Where to, Snow?” Baz asks, wind catching his hair, blowing us both six ways to Sunday as we cross the car park.

 _Anywhere_ , I think.

I take his hand and say, “This way.”

I look up at the roof. We can see lights shining from all the way down here. It’s nice to think we had some part in it.

“Looks good,” I say. “Got there, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” he replies.

I know he’s not talking about the party. (I’m not, either.)

When I turn my head, he’s looking at me.

“Shall we, then?”

I squeeze his hand in mine.

We’ve come a long way from the sixty-first floor.

We’ve come a long way since yesterday, arguing about an email.

“Yeah, come on,” I nod, pulling him along the street. “Before the shops close and we’re shit out of luck.”

“You’d have to bake another tray of custard creams,” he laughs, looking at the pavement.

And that doesn’t sound like a bad end to the day, does it? _Curled up on the sofa. Socks out, tea in hand. Fish finger sandwiches and a whistling kettle._

I step over a crack as we turn the corner. Baz starts telling me about his interview and how nervous he was, even though it was with his stepmum and he already knew he’d got the job. I tell him I turned up to mine with two different shoes on and a Lego brick stuck in my hair. (One of Penny’s little brothers or sisters must’ve knotted it up in there for a laugh.) (Corporate sabotage, if you ask me.)

We talk about that, and we step over the next crack together. Strings of light a retreating memory, fading music the night’s soundtrack.

Our shoes on the pavement set the tempo. Whispers in the dark like lyrics.

_“Baz. Let’s not go back to the party.”_

_“Alright. Lead on then, Simon. Lead on.”_

We slip into tune and find a melody. (Finally, _finally_ , we’re on the same page.)

We merge with the night, acquire a pace we quite like...

...and when I look back again, the office building’s long gone and far out of mind.


End file.
